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UNITED STATES OP AMERICA, 






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O. »4A. IkOUttl.K AIJ1llti;tt 


By COMPTON READE 


17 TO 27 VANDEWyMEf\ St 
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The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition. Issued Tri-weekly. Bv Subscription $36 per annum, 
rrighted 1885, by Qeorge Munro— Entered at the Post Office at New York at second class rates.— Feb. 18, 1885^ 










SaiE 







MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASDE LIBEAEY.-POOKET EDITION, 


so. PRICE. 

1 Yolande. Bj William Black. 20 

2 Molly Bawn. By The Duchess ” — 20 

3 The Mill on the Floss. By George Eliot 20 

4 Under Two Flags. By “ Ouida” 20 

5 Admiral’s Ward. By Mrs. Alexander.. 20 

6 Portia. By “ The Duchess ” . 20 

7 File No. 113. By Emile Gaboriau 20 

8 East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood .... 20 

9 Wanda. By “ Ouida ”. 20 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop. By Dickens. 20 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. MissMulock 20 

12 Other People’s Money. By Gaboriau. 20 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal. By Helen B. Mathers 10 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian. By “ The Duchess ” 10 

15 Jane Eyre. Ly Charlotte Bront6 20 

16 Phyllis. By “ The Duchess” 20 

17 The Wooing O’t. By Mrs. Alexander.. 15 

18 Shandon Bells. By William Black.... 20 

19 Her Mother’s Sin. By the Author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

20 Within an Inch c f llis Life, By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

21 Sunris''. By William Black 20 

22 David (Jopperfleld. Dickens. Vol. I.. 20 

22 David Copperfie'-d. Dickons. Vol. II. 20 

23 A Princess of Thule. By \ /iiliam Black 20 

24 Pickvrj ok Papers. Dickens. Vol. I... 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Vol. II.. 20 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey. By “ Th<» Duchess ”... 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau. Vol. I. 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau. Vol. II. 20 

27 Vanity Fair. By William M. Thackeray 20 

28 Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

29 Beauty’s Daughters. “ '^'le Duchess ” 30 

30 Faith and Unfaith. By “ The Duches- ” 20 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot 20 

32 The Land Leaguers. Anthony Trollope 20 

33 The Cliqme of Gold. By Emile Gaboriau 10 

84 Daniel Deronda. By George Eliot 30 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret. Miss Braddon 20 
S3 Adam Bede. By George Eliot 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles Dickens 30 

38 The Widow Lerbu e. By Gaboriau. . 20 

39 In Silk Attire. By William Black 20 

40 The Last Days of Pompeii. By Sir E. 

Bulwer Lytton . , — 20 

41 Oliver Twist. By Charles Dickens .... 15 

42 Eomola. By George Eliot 20 

43 The Mystery of Oreival. Gaboriau 20 

44 Macleod of Dare. By William Black. . 20 

45 A Little Pilgrim. By Mrs. Oliphant. . . 10 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles Reade. . 20 

47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oliphant. . 20 

48 Thicker Than Water. By James Payn. 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. By Black. . . 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 

By V/illiara Black 20 

61 Dora Thorne. By the Author of “ Her 

Mother’s Sin” 20 

62 The New Magdalen. By Wilkie Collins. 10 

53 The Story of Ida. ByFi’ancesca 10 

64 A Broken Wedding-Ring. By the Au- 

thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 20 

65 The Three Guardsmen. By Dumas. ... 20 

66 Phantom Fortune. Miss Braddon.... 20 

67 Shirley. By Charlotte Brontb 20 


NO. PRIf 

58 By the Gate of the Sea. D. C. Murray 

59 Vice Versa. By F. Anstei’^ 

60 The Last of the Mohicans. Cooper.. 

61 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson 

62 The Executor. By Mrs. Alexander.. 

63 The Spy. By J. Feninrore Cooper. . . 

64 A Maiden Fair. By Charles Gibbon . . 

65 Back to the Old Home. By M. C. Hay 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young Man. 

By Octave Feuillet 

67 Lorna Doone. By R. D. Blackmore. . 

68 A Queen Amongst Women. By the 

Author of “ Dora Thorne ” 

69 Madolin’s Lover. By the Author of 

“Dora Thorne” 

70 White Wings. By William Black . .. 

71 A Struggle for Fame. Mrs. Riddell.. 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money. By M. C. Hay 

73 Redeemed by Love. By the Author of 

“Dora Thorne” 

74 Aurora Floyd. By MissM. E. Braddbn 

75 Twenty Years After. By Dumas... 

76 Wife in Name Only. Bythe Author of 

“ Dora Thorne” 

77 A Tale of Two Cities. By Dickens .... 

78 Madcap Violet. By William Black... 

79 Wedded and Parted. By the Author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 

80 June. By Mrs. Forrestei’ 

81 A Daughter of Heth. By Wm. Black. 

82 Sealed Lips. By F. Du Boisgobey. . . 

83 A Strange Story. Buhver Lytton. . . . 

84 Hard Times. By Charles Dickens. .. 

85 A Sea Queen. By W. Clark Russell.. 

86 Belinda. By Rhocla Broughton 

87 Dick Sand ; or, A Captain at Fifteen. 

By Jules Verne 

88 The Privateersman. Captain Marryat 

89 The Red Eric. ByR. M. Ballantyne. 

90 Ernest Maltravers. Buhver Lytton.. 

91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens. 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice. By the Author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 

93 Anthony Trollope's Autobiography.. 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dickens. . . 

95 The Fire Brigade. R. M. Ballantyne 

96 Erling the Bold. By E. M. Ballantyne 

97 All in a Garden Fair. W'alter Besant.. 

98 A Woman-Hater. By Charles Reade. 

99 Barbara’s History. A. B. Edwards. . . 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. By 

Jules Verne 

101 Second Thoughts. Rhoda Broughton 

102 The Moonstone. By Wilkie CoUins.. . 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell 

104 The Coral Pin. By P. Du Boisgobey. 

105 A Noble W if e. By John Saunders. . . 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dickens. . . 

107 Dombey and Son. Charles Dickens. . 

108 The Cricket o the Hearth, and Doctor 

Marigold. By Charles Dickens. . . . 

109 Little Loo. By W. Clark Russell 

110 Under the Red Flag. By Miss Braddon 

111 The Little School-Master Mark. By 

J. H. Shorthouse 

112 The Waters of Marah. By John flillj 


—1 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.-Pocket Edition. 


KO. PRICK, 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. By M. 

Q. Wightwick 10 

114 Some if Our Girls. By Mrs. 

C J. fci.oart 20 

115 Diaioojid Cut Diamond. By T 

AdQi’>hns Trollope , . . 10 

116 Moths! By " Ouida ” * 20 

117 A Tale of the Sliore and Ocean' 

. W. H. G. Kingston 20 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford. and 

Dering. By “ The Duchess . 10 
112 ■'.Jonica, and A Rose I' lsilii a. 

By “ The Duchess ” 10 

120 To.t? Brown's School Days at 

Rugby. By Thomas Hughes 20 

121 Maid of Athens. By J ustin Mc- 

Carthy 20 

122 lone Stewart. By Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

123 Sweet is True Love. By “ The 

Duchess” 10 

121 Three Feathers. By William 
Black 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 

By William Black 20 

126 Kilmeny. B3" William Black... 20 

127 Adrian Bright. By Mrs. Caddy 20 

128 Afternoon, and Other Sketches. 

By “Ouida” 10 

129 Rossmoyne. By “ The Duch- 

ess ” : 10 

130 The Last of the Barons. By 

Sir E. BulwerLytton 40 

ISl Our Mutual Friend. Charles 
Dickens 40 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock. By 

Charles Dickens 10 

133 Peter the Whaler. By W. H. G. 

Kingston 10 

134 The Witching Hour. By “The 

Duchess ” — 10 

135 A Gr('at Heiress. By R. E. Fran- 

cillon 10 

136 “That liRSt Rehearsal.” By 

“ The Duchess ” 10 

137 Uncle Jack. By Walter Besant 10 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 

By William Black 20 

139 Thj> Romantic Adventures of a 

Milkmaid. By Thomas Hardy 10 

140 A ulorious Fortune. By Walter 

Besant 10 

141 She Loved Himl By Annie 

Thomas 10 

142 Jenifer. By Annie Thomas — 20 

143 One False, Both Fair. J. B. 

Harwood 20 

144 Promises of Marriage. By 

Emil'* Gaboriau 10 

145 “Storm-Beaten:'’ God and The 

Man. By Robert Buchanan.. 20 

146 Love Finds the Way. By Walter 

Besant and James Rice 10 

147 Rachel Ray. By Anthony Trol- 

lope...... 20 

148 Thorns an( Orange-Blossoms. 

By the author of “ Dora 
Thorne” 10 


NO. PRICK. 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

the Russian of Ihishkin 10 

150 For Himself Alone. By T. W. 

Speight 10 

151 The Ducie Diamonds. By C. 

Blatherwick 10 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. 

By Charles Dickens 20 

153 The Golden Calf. By MissM. E. 

Braddon 20 

154 Annan Water. By Robert Bu- 

chanan 20 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret, By Jean 

Middlemas 20 

156 “ For a Dream’s Sake.” By Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

157 Milly’s Hero. By F. W, Robin- 

son r 20 

158 The 'Starling. By Norman Mac- 

leod, D.D 10 

159 A Moment of Madness, and 

Other Stjuies. By Florence 
Marryat.^. 10 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. By Sarah 

Tytler 10 

161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

on the Play of that title by 
Lord Lyttou. 11 

162 Eugene Aram. By Sir E. Bul- 

wer Lytton... 20 

163 Winifred Power. By Joyce Dar- 

rell 20 

164 Leila; or, Tlie Siege of Grenada. 

By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 10 

165 The History of Henry E.smond. 

By William Makepeace Thack- 
eray 20 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites. By 

“The Duchess” 10 

167 Heart and Science. By Wilkie 

Collins 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Charles 

Dickens and Wilkie Collins. . . 10 

169 The Haunted Man. By Charles 

Dickens 10 

170 A Givat Treason. By Mary 

Honpus 30 

171 Fortune’s Wheel, and Other 

Stories. By “The Duchess” 10 

172 “ Golden Girls.” By Alan Muir 20 

173 The Foreigners. By Eleanor C. 

Price 20 


174 Under a Ban. By Mrs. Lodge. . 20 

175 Love’s Random Shot, and Other 

Stories. By Wilkie Collins. . . 10 

176 An April Day. By Philippa P. 

Jephson 10 

177 Salem Chapel. By Mrs.Oliphant 20 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 

of a Life in the Highlands. By 
Queen Victoria 10 

179 Little Make-Believe. By B. L. 

Farjeon 10 

180 Round the Galley Fire. By W. 

Clark Russell 10 

181 The New Abelard. By Robert 

Buchanan 10 

182 The Millionaire. A Novel. ..... 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.-Pocket Edition. 


NO. PRICE. 


183 Old Coritraiiy, and Other Sto- 
ries. By Florence Marryat... 10 
1R4 Thirlby Hall. By W. E. Norris. 20 

185 Dita. By Lady Margaret Ma- 

jeudie 10 

186 The Canon’s AVard. By James 

Pasm 20 

187 The Midnight Sun. ByFredrika 

liremer 10 

188 Idonea. By Anne Beale 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander V B 

.190 Romance of.^a Black Veil. B.v 

the author of “ Dor^Tliorne ” 10 

191 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever 15 

192 At the World’s Mercy. By F. 

. Warden...* t 10 

193 The Rosary Folk. By G. Man- 

ville Fenn 10 

194 “ So Near, and Yet So Far !” By 

P Alison 10 

195 “ The Way of thS^'^orld.” By 

David Christie Murray 15 

196 Hidden Perils. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake. By Blary 

Cecil Hay. . ’ 20 

198 A Husband’s Story 10 

199 The Fisher Village. By Anne 

Beale 10 

200 An Old Man’s Love. By An- 

thony Trollope 10 

201 The Monastery. By Sir AValter 

Scott ■. 20 

202 The Abbot. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

203 John Bull and His Island. By 

Max O’Rell..^ 10 

204 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon 15 

205 The Minister’s Wife. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 30 

206 The Picture, and Jack of All 

Trades. By Charles Reade . . 10 

207 Pi’etty Miss Neville. By B. M. 

Croker 15 

208 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, 

and Other Stories. By Flor- 
ence Marryat 10 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 

By W. Clark Russell 10 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 

rent Events. By Chas. Reade 10 

211 The Octoroon. By Miss M. E. 

Braddon 10 

212 Charles O'Malley, th§ Irish Dra- 

goon. Chas. Lever (Com- 
plete in one volume) 30 

213 A Teri-ible Temptation. Chas. 

Reade.. V 15 

211 Put Yourself in His Place. By 
• Charles Reade ‘ 20 

215 Not Like Other Girls. By Rosa 

Nonchette Carey 1.5 

216 Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 15 

217 The Man She Cared For. By 

F. W. Robinson 15 

218 Agnes Sorel. By G. P. R. James 15 


NO. PRICE. 

219 Lady Clare ; or. The Master of 

the Forges. By Georges Ohnet 10 

220 AYhich Loved Him Best? By 

the author of “ Dora Thorne ” 1C 
2S1- Qorniu’ Thro’ the Rj e. By 


V Helen B. Mathers '. . . 15 

The uun-Maid. By Miss Grant 15 
*>->3 A Sailoi’’s Sweetheart. By W. 

Clark Russell If 

224 The Arundel Motto. Mary Cecil 

Hay 1“ 

225 The Giant’s Robe. ByF. Anstey 18 

.226 Frietidship. By “ Ouida ” 2f 

227 Nancy. By Rhoda Broughton. 15 

228 Princess Napraxine. By “ Oui- 

_ yf 

229 Maid, "NVife, or AVidow? Bj' 

Mrs. Alexander 10 

230 Dorothy Foi*ster. By AValter 

Besaut 15 

231 Griffith Gaunt. By Charles 

Reade 15 

232 Love and Money ; or, A Perilous 

Secret. By Charles Reade. . . lO 

233 “ I Say No or, the Love-Letter 

Answered., AVillde Collins. ... 15 

234 Barbara; or, Spletidid Misery. 

Miss M. E. Braddon 15 

235 “It is Never Too Late to 

Mend.’’ By Charles Reade... 20 

236 AAffiieh Shall It Be? Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. By the 

author of “ Dora Thorne ”... 15 

238 Pascarel. By “Ouida” 20 

2^39 Signa. By “Ouida” ^ 

240 Called Back. By Hugh Conway 10 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother. B\' 

L. B. Walford 10 

242 The Two Orphans. ByD’Ennei'.y 10 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” First 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Second 

half. By Charles Lever 20 

244 A Great Mistake. By the author 

of “ His AA^edded Wife ” 20 

245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

Boat. By Miss Mulock 10 

246 A Fatal Dower. By the author 

of “ His AVedded AAhfe ” 10 

247 The Armourer’s Prentices. By 

Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

248 The House on the Marsh. F. 

AA’^arden 10 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter.” 

By author of “ Dora Tliorne ” 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline. By the au- 
thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 


251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 
Other Tales. By Hugh Con- 
way, author of “Called Back” 10 

2.52 A Sinless Secret. Bj^ “ Rita”.. 10 

2.53 The Amazon. B}' Carl Vosmaer 10 
254 The Wife's Secret, and Fair but 

False. By the author of 
“ Dora Thorne ” 1C 


[continued on third page op cover. 



WHICH 

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KING? 


A NOVEL 


By COMPTON READE. 

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NEW YORK; 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER 
17 TO ^ Vandewatkii Strkbt. 


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. V 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


PROLOGUE. 

“ Good-morning, Hodge. Hope your wife and the hoy are doing 
well. Hodge. Quite well, eh? That’s right. Singular thing, isn’t' 
it, Hodge; that you and 1 should be blessed with a son and heir each 
on the self same day? Odd coincidence, Hodge, very. One of 
those accidents, Hodge, that seem to be done on purpose.” 

John Jlodge, a fine, straight-limbed specimen of the Kentish 
breed, stared hard at this rather jerky harangue, and responded 
briefly, ” Ay, ay, Sir Kobert!” adding, perhaps for civility’s sake, 
“ and my lady — I hope she’s as hearty as my missus is?” 

“ Thanks, Hodge, much,” said Sir Robert Marmyon. 1 am 
glad to believe that you, in common with all the laborers on my 
estate, take as warm a personal interest in all that concerns my hap- 
piness as 1 do in yours. My wife is, as you may imagine, rather a 
cause of anxiety at this crisis. People in her rank of life, Hodge, 
have not enjoyed the inestimable advantage of a robust training, and 
1 tear that, unlike youi good wife (who has been gifted ’oy Provi- 
dence not only with beauty, but with adequate physical strength), 
she will hardly be equal to the duties of a mother— do you follow 
me, Hodge? — of a mother to our boy.” 

“Bad job that, for the child,” remarked Hodge, sententiously. 
” I’m not one of those. Sir Robert, that believes in a cow being better 
than a woman, except ’tis tor calves.” 

” There,” interposed the baronet, ” 1 venture to differ from you, 
Hodge. Sir Marshall Midwinter, who, as you may be aware, is the 
queen’s doctor, and who is now in attendance on Lady Marmyon, 
said to me oni^ yesterday: ‘ My dear Marmyon, a cow is a first-rate 
nurse to the children of what is termed the working-class of people, 
that is to say, wmose industry lies in the direction of manual rather 
than of mental labor. To those of your order it is quite different. 
A working-man’s child, assuming the mother to be healthy, is born 
with a constitution and with ready-made muscles. Your child, on 
the contrary, inherits with constitutional delicacy a superfluity of 
nerves and an absence of muscular development. In the one case 
the cow is as good, or perhaps even better than mother’s milk; in 
the other, nourishment from the human breast is desirable, perhaps 
essential.’ Do you quite follow Sir Marshall’s argument, Hodge?” 

Hodge shook his head as one not to be convinced by sophistry. 

“My good man, it’s as plain as a pikestaff,” persisted Sir Rob- 
ert, with singular vehemence. *‘ lou are the cart-horse, and a very 
useful and honorable part, too, the cart-horseplays in the mechanism 
of the world. 1 am the race-horse. I am, let it be granted, of less 


6 


UKDER WHICH KmG? 

service to my species, yet, perhaps, of some small value in my way 
to that portion of it called Society. Now, your boy being, luckily 
for him, constituted by nature of a rough and tough fiber, could 
thrive on — well — pretty nearly anything in the shape of lacteal fluid, 
whereas mine, poor little brat, stands in urgent need of the strongest 
and most stimulating milk. And the hard part of the business is, 
that his mother, the most fragile of mortals, has nothing to give 
him. Now, Hodge, 1' hope you understand me— -let me say rather 
that we thoroughly understand each other?” 

Sir Robert Marmyon, Hodge’s liege lord. Had condescended for 
the first time for many jears to enter his humble domicile, and the 
latter, to be candid, was rather puzzled at the outset to guess what 
was the cause of this abnormal visitation. Little by little the 
squire’s words, no less than his manner, began to convey his mean- 
ing. The revelation could not have been altogether quite pleasant 
to the blunt intelligence of the laborer, for he answered in a tone 
that could bear but one interpretation. 

” Whatever you’re a- driving at. Sir Robert, hadn’t you better 
speak your mind straight? I’m a plain man, and used to plain 
words.” 

Sir Robert Marmyon drew himself up rather superbly. Not being 
accustomed to brook opposition, he was quick to scent it in anticipa- 
tion. Consequently his tone changed at once from that of cajolery 
to one of command. 

“ Hodge,” he said, ” I will meet your challenge, but in doing so 
1 would remind you that your family have been for many genera- 
tions nursed by our estate. Only last week 1 was looki^ ovei the 
list of names of the troopers who followed my ancestor, ^r Leoline 
Marmyon, to Edgehill and Naseby in the service of the king, and 1 
found among the number that of Hodge— your ancestor, I have no 
doubt. And your grandfather was, within my personal recollec- 
tion, my grandfather’s keeper; your father my father’s groom, while 
your elder brother is my keeper. We Mafmyons, my good Hodge, 
have been for centuries the friends of your family; and it is as your 
friend, as well as your landlord, that 1 come this morning to proffer 
a request which ought not to be — 1 may hope, too, will not be— re- 
fused.” 

Hodge’s bright Saxon eye sparkled like a sapphire in the sun as it 
gazed straight at Ihe quick, clever brown eye of his lord, which, 
however, seemed rather to avoid its telling luminance. Then he 
made answer firmly and crispl 3 ^ 

‘‘ Sir Robert, you want me to sell the mother’s milk that is the 
birthright of my baby? Is that it?” 

“We won’t talk, in a matter of this sort, about selling or buying, 
if .you please,” rejoioed the baronet, resuming his cajoling manner. 
” That is a very unfair way of putting a very reasonable request. I 
come to you and say, Hodge, there are more causes than one which 
impel me to ask that as a favor which 1 might almost — having re- 
gard to our mutual positions— enforce as a demand. 1 have told 
you briefly some of these causes; 1 will add but one more— our babe 
is, as you know, the heir of my name and estate. Can you wonder 
that ! should be solicitous concerning one who may — probably will 
—stand in my shoes?” 


UI^DER WHICH KmQ? 

“ Well, feo, Sir Robert. But can you wonder at my safeguarding 
my little ’un’s food? ’T.ain’t mine to sell.” 

” Tush!” cried the baronet, testily stamping bis foot. ” Why do 
you persist in using that ugly word ‘ sell ’? ” 

‘‘ Because it’s the straight one,” smiled Hodge, proudly. 

” Then.ltim to understand you decliue my suggestion, without 
so much as considering it, without referring it to your wile, who is 
at least as closely interested as yourself, for her approval?” — this 
with consummate hauteur. 

“ That’s it. Sir Kobert.” 

” Then, Hodge, you compel me to own that 1 have been deceived 
in you! 1 am disappointed and annoyed. No— nothing further, if 
you please. You have given your answer, and 1 shall take my own 
course.” 

The star-like eyes of Hodge fully appreciated the precise meaning 
of these last words. They meant mischief— tyranny. 

‘‘ Sir Robert,” he remarked, quietly, as the great man moved to- 
ward the threshold — he had been standing with his hands in the 
pockets of his shooting-coat on the cottage floor—” you are hard. 
You take our lives; you take our labor from sunrise to sunset. In 
return yon give as little as you can in wages, and make it up some- 
how in gifts that degrade us. Not content with that, you w'ant to 
separate our wives "from our children, and you demand as your 
rightful perquisite the breast of the mother, as though it were the 
breast of one of your brood mares or St. Bernard dogs.” 

” It’s a lie,” gasped Sir Robert, turning positively livid with rage 
at this insolence, as he considered it, ” 1 did not demand, I asked; 
and 1 was a fool for my pains.” 

” A demand that is followed by a threat is not much of a favor,” 
replied Hodge. ” But that don’t signify. Sir Robert, one way or 
the other. What makes the blood boil in ray veins is that you, 
knowing me from my boyhood, should believo me capable of being 
bribed to starve the son of ray body. Do you take me for a low 
thief, that you expect me to rob a baby fresh from its mother’s 
womb, and that mother my wife?” 

” 1 take you,” said Sir Robert, ” for nothing worse than a pig- 
headed, conceited, ungrateful rascal. You are standing in your own 
light and in your child’s light. The fact is you’ve been reading 
some infernal radical paper, and have got your head stuffed with all 
sorts of silly sentimentality. Well, my man, take your own course, 
and, as 1 have already sai«t, 1 intend to take mine. Good-day, 
Hodge.” 

-But the tall, handsomb laborer vouchsafed no counter-valediction 
of the hypocritical sort, and as his feudal lord departed double quick, 
he w'atched his retreating form through the village of IMaidnyori with 
eyes expressive of defiance and distrust, _and a sneer on his lips of 
scorn rather than wrath. 

” What made him come here slavering me?” he soliloquized, 
angrily. ” If he’d tackled me like a man. I’d have had inore trouble 
to refuse him; but to talk about being friends! A friend who gives 
you eighteen shillings a week for seventy two hours’ labor, and' then 
docks you oft two shillings for house-rent! If that’s friendship, I’d 
as lieve have his enmity. Anyhow, he don’t come lord over me— 


s 


tJKDEE WHICH HIHG? 


not as long as there’s Australia or America to go to, and that I sup- 
pose is what it’s coming to. No great harm either.” 

******* 

In the meanwhile, as honest Hodge stood meditating on the proba- 
ble consequences of his recusance, Sir Robert JMarmyon strode vig- 
orously forward through the village, where every cap was lifted in 
obeisance, through the avenue of wych-elms, amd so to Marmyon 
Court. ■ His temper resembled powerfully that ot King Aliab when 
that Radical commoner Naboth declfned to sell his ancestral vine- 
yard at any price. It was that ot a thwarted, spoiled child ot fort- 
une, who desired to wreak his vengeance on something or some- 
body. 

And yet this man’s glorious inheritance, coupled with a large 
command of money, and a social position superior to that ot half 
the loyal personages of Europe, ought to have rendered him mag- 
nanimous. Marmyon Court may not have possessed the barbaric 
splendor of the palace of the iaundiced King ot Israel, but it could 
only be termed a noble pile. Its gray gables' flanked the side ot the 
range of chalk hills, and its corridors, chambers, and staircases told 
ot a past when geatry of the Marmjmn type w^ere more ot autocrats 
than at present, yet not one-half so luxurious. The browsing deer 
among the proud ancestral trees — “ so great and good,” as the poet 
rightly terms them — augmented the lordliness of this feudal de- 
mesne. Surely baseness, meanness, littleness, ought to have been 
absent far from the mind ot its fortunate owner! Surely, if any- 
thii^ sublunary could inspire a small intelligence or an attenuated 
heaft with a sense of generosity, it would be so venerable and beau- 
tiful a heritage as this same Marmyon! Surely so, tor is not the un- 
varying rule of chivalry noblesse oblige? And yet, what was the 
fact? Here was this superb and supreme suzerain ready to trample 
on a poor man for the heinous ofiense ot honor and independence, 
though all the while, as a mere matter ot abstract morality, the serf 
was right and his lord wrong; the man was the Bayard, WiQ'preux 
chemliei\ and the master nothing loftier than a poor, petty, peevish 
bully, whose grandeur had obliterated his conscience. 

As Sir Robert was hurrying to his wife’s bedchamber, in a terrible 
„ haste, who should he meet but Nurse Pratling, with the babe in her 
matronly arms. 

“ This fellow,” he jerked out, with savage emphasis — “ this fel- 
low Hodge, Mrs. Pratling, has the audacity to refuse to allow his 
wife to nurse baby. 1 call it disgusting and disgracetul conduct 
on his part, but just like the workinir-classes. Most ungrateful pack 
of curs in the world. Catch me doing anything for any of them in 
future. No, no, Mrs. Pratling, a burned child dreads the fire. 
This is the first favor — the very first — 1 have asked ot a living soul 
on my estate, and what is the reply? Simply this—* Sha’n’t.’ Very 
well, 1 shall keep my own counsel, and just let — ” 

” There, there. Sir Robert,” interupted Nurse Pratling, with that 
sweet smile which the doctors w^ere wmnt to declare was more valua- 
ble than champagne itself to her lady-patients, “ look at baby! Isn’t 
he a beauty? Hazel eyes, Sir Robert. Generally the way when the 
gentleman’s brown and the lady blue eyes, like your dear lady’s. 
Hush, hush, my wicksy-picksy!” 


UNDER WHICH KINO? 9 

'This last was addressed presumably to the heir, whose stomach 
being ventose and painful, caused him to give tongue— rather dis- 
tressfully too; for his neck seemed pufXy, it not swollen. 

“Ha! yes,” said the baronet, “hazel; quite so. Pretty color, 
hazel. But, Mrs. Pratling, what’s to be done for a human cow? Our 
little gentleman here is getting hungry, 1 presume. Must we wire 
to London?” 

Nurse Pratling shook her head. “ No, don’t, Sir Hobert,” was 
her rejoinder. “ Leastways till I’ve seen Mrs. Hodge.” 

“Oh,” retorted the baronet, huffily. “ Don’t flatter yourself, my 
good soul! You’ll do no good in that quarter, I assure you. The 
Hodge family is too radical!” 

“ 1 may. as well try,” replied nurse, in a tone ot quiet confidence; 
adding, “ it won’t take me a halt-hour to get there and back.” 

“ Very well,” observed Sir Robert, dryly, as he turned toward 
Lady Marmyon’s room to inquire how her ladyship felt. “ Only 
look sharp, for 1 don’t wish to delay my wire, or we shall not get a 
wet-nurse to-day.” 

“ No more 1 will,” was the answer. “ Here, Hester,” summon- 
ing an obedient Abigail, “ you take baby, and mind he don’t cry 
his little eyes out, poor dear! I’ll be back, Sir Robert, in less than 
two jiffs.” 

No recognized system ot chronology having as yet succeeded in 
quantifying one jiff, it would be difficult to determine the dura- 
tion of something be«tween one and two. Sir Robert doubtless felt 
that this indefinite span might last over an epoch or a century, or 
be reduced to a few half seconds, according to the good pleasure ot 
Nurse Pratling, so he calmly made up his mind to wait a couple of 
hours, and with that intent — my lady being asleep and not requiring 
to be fidgeted with his small talk and fussiness — sat down to digest 
his “ Morning Post ” with all the zeal and devotion ot a sincere 
aristocrat and earnest admirer of the British constitution in Church 
and State. 

He had barely waded through the leading articles, and was about 
to regale his imagination with a description ot the dresses worn at 
the nuptials of Lady Ermyntrude de Sligginson with Captain 
Raffrifi:, ot the Mullingar Murderers, a gallant corps, wherein his 
father had once held a commission, when a knock at the library 
door announced the return of Mrs. Pratling, with the professional 
smile it anything rather augmented in breadth. 

“Well? And what news do you bring, my good woman?” 

“ It’s all arranged comfortable,” replied the monthly nurse, with 
a smile of intense satisfaction. “ I seed Mrs. Hodge herself, 1 did. 
Sir Robert, acause if you wants anythink done very bad you’d best 
try the wife. There’s a proverb as says that the gray mare’s the 
better horse of the two, and that’s my motter. Sir Robert. Law 
bless ’ee, when Pratling were alive, d’ye think I’d have let him do 
as he liked with me or my baby? Not me. Sir Robert.” 

“ Well, Mis. Pratling?” 

“ Mrs. Hodge, she says, says she, if 1 gives up my boo-oy, she says, 
wdiat will Sir Robert do for iny husband, she says? So, says 1, 
leastways 1 make so bold as to say, there’s the Marmyon A.rms pub- 
lic-’us. Old Jnrvi.s is sold up, and Sir Robert hasn't got no tenant 


10 


UNDER WHICH KING? 

for it. Why shouldn’t he put in your man? She says, says she, do 
you mean it, mum? Says 1, that 1 does. Mm. Hodge, and 1 know’d 
Sir Robert Avere willing to give it to Hodge, lor 1 ’eerd him say so. 
Not as 1 did. Sir Robert, but 1 did ’ear in Ibe servants’ ’all as that 
were in your mind. Well, Mrs, Hodge she gave a loud call lor 
Hodge, and he came upsteers, and there were a word or two; but — 
there, all’s well as ends well, is the' beautiflest verse in the Bible; 
and as the song says. Sir Robert, ‘ Of the two ways she had his’n.’ 
Hodge and William Benson, the gardener, with tw^olads, are a-going 
to letch her up to the Court on a stretcher, and W idder Gipps is to 
have her little ’un to bring up b}*^ hand.” 

” Upon my honor, ’’smiled Sir Robert, “ you’re a downright clever 
diplomatist, Nurse Pratling, and I’ll endome your protocol.” 

” Do what?” 

” I’ll give that curmudgeon, John Hodge, the Marmyon Arms.” 

“ For a term of years,” suggested Mr. Pratling; adding, ” I gived 
the man my word as it was to be so, tor he says, says he, he says, it 
so be as 1 knuckles under to Sir Robert, he says, as soon as the 
boo-oy’s weaned, he’ll go to turn me out, he says; and 1 says, 
Hodge, says 1, trust me for that.” 

“I’ll give him an agreement,” replied the baronet, ” though my 
wwd is enough.” 

‘‘ That’s what Hodge said,” replied Mrs. Pratling. ” A man of 
his word, says he, is our squire, but hard.” 

Sir RolDert smiled. This definition sounded as terse as it was, to 
his own knowledge, true. Like most of his order, he respected the 
law of honor punctiliously, but never, on any consideration, paid a 
pound for that which he could by force or favor obtain for nineteen 
shillings and sixpence. 

With that Nurse Pratling bowed herself out, and in the course of 
the morning, that is to say by the servants’ dinner-hour, her pro- 
gramme was so lar carried into execution that Mrs. Hodge was cour 
veyed from her cottage in the village to the Court, and also carried 
upstairs to the chamber assigned to the separate use ol the monthly 
nurse. There was one awkwardness, however. Mrs. Hodge would 
not leave her baby to Widow Gipps. She begged to be allowed to 
bring it to the Court, in order to have a last kiss and last look. 
Mothers can not quite extirpate nature, however mercenary may be 
their disposition. 

Mrs. Pratling shook her head when she espied Baby Hodge at his 
mother’s breast. ” You didn’t oughter nave brought him, mum,” 
she pleaded. ” Two good-byes is worse nor one. Hester, you go 
and fetch our baby. There ain’t a pin to choose betw^een ’em, 
though yourn, Mrs. Hodge, weighs a bit the heaviest of the two.” 

In a minute, Hester, a rather sawney country lass, with a very 
pale iace, introduced Master jSIarmyon. 

‘‘They’re an evenish pair,” mused Nurse Pratling. “Both on 
’eni’s got hazel eyes and a biggish lobe to the ear. Well, Mrs. 
Hodiie, arter all we’re much the same flesh and blood. 1 don’t go 
to say there bain’t no dillerence betw^een a king and a coster, acause 
there be, but not at starting. It all comes o’ the bringin’ up.” “ 

-But Mrs. Hodge was not much given to philosophizing. Her one 
idea Avas her boy, though she had covenanted to sell the nourishment 


UKDER WHICH KIHG? 11 

given him by his Creator in retum for a very equivocal guerdon, 
one of those blessings that carry curses V7ith them— albeit, to the 
rustic mind, a “ pub ” is an earthly parjidise for the publican and 
his wife. It was the parting so soon alter the gift had come from 
God that caused Mrs. Hodge to wince and her mouth to twitch, 
symptoms not lost upon the critical eyes of Nurse Pratling. 

“ Now, mum,” said the clever woman, ‘‘ it will never do to fret 
— no, noyer— or the milk will go wrong. Suppose you taste a bit of 
mutton and get down a pint or so of stout? I’m that hungry 1 
must eat a bit myself, so I’ll send it you up from the servants’ 'all 
nice and hot, with a pertater and a Spanish onion, if that’s good 
enough?” 

“ Thank you, mum,” replied Mrs. Hodge, in whose eye was visi- 
ble a rather big dazzling tear. “ If it be all the same, 1 will, please.” 

‘‘Bless yon, you two beauties,” smiled nurse, pinching gently 
their chubby legs. Then, as it a sudden thought flashed across her, 
she took a bit of golden cord out of the cupboard, tied it round Mas- 
ter Marmyon’s little leg tight, and laid the child on the bed by the 
side of Mrs. Hodge, with the muttered remark, ” ’Twouldn’t never 
do to mix ’em — and they’re uncommon alike, they is, in their bodies. 
'Tis the lace and stuff makes the difference.” 

This maneuver duly performed, she bade blaster follow her to the 
servants’ hall, in order to obtain and convey to Mrs. Hodge the 
desiderated repast of mutton, potato, and onion, with the fortifying 
stout regarded as essential to the existence of maternity when on the 
nurse. Hester, though in expression sawney, was quick enough 
with her Angers and toes, or she never would have been selected for 
service at the Court by Mrs. Binks, the august housekeeper, a lady 
of much force and discrimination of character, who was the actual, 
while Lady Marmyon simply posed as nominal, mistress of this very 
e^ctensive domestic establishment. 

It took Hester perhaps Ave minutes— not more — to lay a tray, 
place neatly thereupon a plateful of steaming meat, with vegetables 
and stout, and carry it up to Mrs. Hodge, who lay, in accordance 
with nurse’s. orders, recumbent on Mrs. Pratling ’s bed, still nursing 
baby, but wearing a more contented expression of countenance. 
Perhaps, so Hester thought, it was the advent of the mutton, or per- 
haps anticipation of London stout. 

‘‘ Here’s a nice dinner for you, Mrs. Hodge,” said the girl, with 
an 'affectation of cheeriness. ‘‘It must be hard to part, 1 know, but 
then ’tis for his good and your good, mum, bain’t it?” ^ 

Mrs. Hodge gazed at the girl with strange earnestness. ‘‘ 1 can’t 
abear it, Hester,” she said; ‘‘ 1 can’t eat a mouthful vidth. that there 
innercent baby a-lookin’ at iT.e that reproachful. Would you mind, 
my dear, a slippin’ on your bonnet and a-lakin’ him away to Wid- 
der Gipps? I shall feel that better, Hester, when the little un’s out 
o’ my sight. You won’t mind, will ’ee?” earnestly, very. 

Mindl Not Hester, the most soft-souled, feeble- natured of her 
sex, who ran out of the room, returning in two minutes bonneted 
and shawled, wrapped up baby, and was off, angen bhcklicUer. 

‘‘ Why, what?” cried Nurse Pratling, on reappearing well filled 
a few minutes later. 

” Couldn’t abear it,” grunted Mrs. Hodge, as though nature had 


12 


UNDER WHICH KING? 

been overtaxed beyond the utmost limits of endurance. “ Couldn't 
abear The sight of that dear baby. Spoiled my appertite it did. 
Give 1 palpitations, it did,, in the 'eart. Sol ast Hester to take away 
un straight, and she's gone with the pore child to Widder Gipps. 
A drop more stout, please.” 

An expression of dubiety flitted across tlie face of Mrs. Pratling, 
and she may have had her suspicions, for instead of answering Mrs. 
Hodge she drew back tJie clothes and satisfied herself that the gold 
cord was still as she had lied it round baby's ankle. There it w'as, 
however, tight as wax, so she remarked that the departure of 
poor baby was just as well, perhaps, and was about to supply further 
malt liquor when a maid came running in with a message that Sir 
Marshall Midwinter had arrived from London by the train, and was 
waiting to see Lady Marmyon and the child. 

In another half-second the good nurse was in the superb presence 
of Esculapius. They were, so to speak, old friends, for Nurse 
Pratling did a great business with ailstocratic and wealthy patients; 
and he, as all the world knows, made his money and reputation by 
acting the part of accoucheur to that species of superbity. 

” l&ow’s baby, nurse?” 

“ Here is the little dear. Sir Marshall,” responded Mrs. Pratling, 
conducting the doctor into her sanctum, ‘‘and this is his nurse, 
with a breast of milk fit for a king.” 

” How do you do, ma'am?” said Sir Marshall, gravely. ” And 
bow is our little embryo baronet? Ha! so! so! He has grown 
amazingly since yesterday. Let me see his throat. That’s right,” 
feeling the child’s neck, “ the slight swelling has disappeared, 
quite.” 

” Did you remark a swelling?” asked Nurse Pratling. 

“Very slight,” observed the doctor. ”1 didn’t mention it, 
though it struck my eye. A freak of nature, nurse. Soon over too. 

1 thought it would be worse, and brought down some lotion, but 
happily there is no necessity for it. Now, shall w^e pay her ladyship 
a visit? 1 am more anxious on her account.” 

‘‘It are odd,” murmured Nurse Pratling to herself, as she fol- 
lowed Sir Marshall Midvvinter down the corridor. ” 1 certain sure 
did notice a bit of a swelling this very morning as is, but it’s gone as 
quick as it come. What a eye them doctors has, and how they 
keeps their thoughts to themselves! One had need to be careful, 
for if you aren’t they’ll find it out, no fear.” 

H And how is my charming Lady Marmyon?” cried the doctor’s 
voice chirpily, the deep bass of a minute ago having been metamor- 
phosed into a silvery tenor. ” A little weak, eh? We'J, we must 
expect that. Yery soon you shall have some champagne, and then 
we shall hear no more about weakness. Let me feel the pulse.” 

Lady Marmyon gave him a very white, transparent hand, with 
delicate rose-tipped fingers and filbert nails, the wrist penciled 
with fine blue veins. 

” A little quick. Nurse Pratling. And what do 1 see, a tear in 
Lady Marmyon’s eye? Why, what can there be to cry about? 
Come, come!” This in the most coaxing of tones. 

“ It’s very silly of me,” wLimpered hei ladyship, ” very idiotic 
indeed, and I’m quite ashamed of myself.” 


UKDER WHICH KIKG? 13 

“It's the baby m;^ lady’s a-fretting after,” interposed Nurse 
Pralling, with something of asperity, as though babies were an un- 
pardonable weakness in people of Lady Mai’myon's rank and pres- 
ent condition. 

“And very natural too,” protested the doctor— “ very natural, 
just what 1 should expect. But we must conquer that feeling. Tou 
will have to be separated from the little man, my dear Lady jVlar- 
myon, for two or three days; after that you shall have him with 
you as much as you like, but till then and he wagged his head 
as though it were a tail. 

“ Or else,” suggested Nurse Pratling, with menacing incisiveness, 
“ my lady may expect the puerperatical fever.” 

“But,” pleaded my lady, peevishly, “ 1 want baby now! Per- 
haps in two or three days I sha’n’t care to see him at all.” 

“ Tut, tut!” cried Sir Marshall, “ do be a sensible woman. There 
is only one course, and one too that you must follow. As for fret- 
fulness or impatience, it won’t do one little bit. Nurse very wisely 
says, ‘ you’ll worry yourself quite ill.’ As it is there’s a little more 
pulse than 1 like, so please keep very quiet, will you, and — ” 

“ I’m sure, doctor. Lady Marmyon will be most obedient,” ob- 
served Sir Robert, w^ho had just entered the room with the stealthy 
tread of a tame tomcat. 

“ I will indeed, Robert,” faltered my lady submissively. “ It is, 
I know, most foolish and suicidal to wmrry, and 1 won’t worry — 
that is if 1 can help rt.” 

And so they all laughed low in chorus, and Sir Marshall Midwin- 
ter hurried away to Town as quick as the train could carry him, 
having netted the trifling sum of thirty guineas by this brief visit, 
while Nurse Pratling returned to Mrs. Hodge, who was nursing 
baby in right motherly style. 

“ Now, mum,” remarked that judicious woman, “ 1 hopes, I 
does, that w^e sha’n’t have no wmrrits with you along of that there 
baby of yours as is well provided Jior, 1 beared Sir Robert give 
orders that the milk of my lady’s favorite Alderue.y cow is to be 
reserved for him, and to be sent reg’lar twice every day to Widow 
Gipps, and I’ll pftrmise you my sacred word that if there’s anything 
gees wrong you sha’n’t be kept in the dark. But, if you please, no 
w'orrils, no bother! One lot of worrits is quite enough at a time, 
and it will take me all 1 know to keep my lady from messing her- 
self into what ye may call, Mrs. Hodge, the puerperaticals. See?” 

“ I’ll try not to fret,” replied Mrs. Hodge, a fine, cherry-colored 
young woman, with a merry eye that seemed to give the lie tnen 
and there to the sigh she heaved rather histrionically. 

“That’s It,” snapped Mrs. Pratling; “and none of that there 
sighin’, if you ploase, mum. It's bad for the milk, mum, and you 
recollect, please, as your milk’s a valyable article just now. Tain’t 
every baby in this land as is born with a baronet’s what’s-his-name 
in his blessed mouth and the title-deeds of a Garden of Eden sticking 
to his ribs. B1 — less ’is little ’cart!” 

“ I know that,” protested Mrs. Hodge, adding, sotto toce, “ and 1 
do mean to do the right thing by baby, don’t I, my sw’eet boy?” 
Whereupon she ratified this promise by such a kiss as sounded, at all 
events, like sincerity. 


14 


UNDER WHICH KING?' 


“And now,” whispered Nurse Prntling, “just for one nip of 
something comforting, and 1 must go and play watch-dog to m}'^ 
lady. Have a drop? Perhaps you’d better not. Bad for tlie milk. 
JL oil can have your stout when you want it. You’ve only to ring 
for Hester,^ and she’ll fetch it. I’ve give my orders to that effect.” 

Wherewith Mrs. Pratling, having gulped dowm a something nocu- 
ous from the mouth of a black bottle concealed in the linen-drawer, 
smirked herself out of the room in the best of tempers. 

Lady Marniyon did not not keep her pledge to her husband and 
Sir Mai'shair Midwinter, but persisted most irrationally in frettin<>- 
and fuming till her pulse began to gallop, and those tine blue ^eins 
m her wrist to show rather alarmingly. The result was that Nurse 
Pralling got no sleep, and convinced herself that my lady was 
within measurable distance of what she termed puerperaticaf fever 
—as indeed was the case, assuming that good soul meant puerperal. 

Thus it happened that nurse enjoying what she styled appropri- 
ately a high old time with my lady, Mrs. Hodge was relegated to 
the joint company of baby and Hester; for one of the regulations 
briefly enforced by Sir Robert in an interview he had with John 
Hodge, was that he was on no account to come to the court without 
special permission, and this the said John, being independent 
enough, was decidedly averse to asking. 

For some inscrutable reason, Hester took a great fancy to Mrs. 
Hodge. Perhaps it was because she was pretty; perhaps because* 
being almost her own age, there w^as a sort of freemasonry between 
them. Anyhow% she seemed determined to make friends, and Mrs. 
Hodge found her far too useful to chill these advances in the direc- 
tion of familiarity. 

And so it chanced that the following evening, with the amiable de- 
favor, Hester ran down to the village, and called 
at \\idoiv Gipps’s cottage for a half-hour’s gossip. She had reck- 
oned upon securing the eternal gratitude of Mrs. Hodge by briucrincr 
back a full and particular account of baby- the poor little cow’s"^ 
milk-fed bab}' — his works and ways. 

To her intense astonishment she encountered in the widow^’s cot- 
tag-e no less a person than John Hodge, who seerted to be in a ter- 
rible bate^; indeed, to have put on the demon. 

brat?” he grunted, angrily, in response to her query 
Don t look up to much. Gone down half his weight in the last 
twenty-four hours. ^ Fain’t right of my wife to rob the little one of 
his food. M hy, am t he as good as that there cussed spawn of that 
there shadder of a young woman, my Lady Marinyon? What’s the 
good of shadders bringing substances into this yere wicked world 
It so be as they can’t feed ’em theirseives? W^ell Mi " 


how be you, and how’s my Martha? 
blood. I’ll be bound"*' 


, Miss Hester, and 
Forgotten her own flesh and 


^’etorted Hester, loftily, ‘‘I’m ashamed of you. 

• I ve been sent here this very night as is if it 

um t to ask at ter baby? For shame!” ’ 

lo ask after baby!*’ he echoed. “ Well, young woman, don’t 
go for to ask. Look! The poor little beggar can’t swaller with that 
there lump m his blessed throat. ” 

Oh, yes he can,” rapped out sharply the tongue of Widow 


U>fI)Eli WHICH KING? 15 

Gipps. “ He’s all right, bless yei. I’ll guarantee him to be the 
fattest of the two this day fortnight.” 

” What makes ’im gulp his victuals, then, as though he’d gone 
and got a happle or a horange in his throat?” grumbled Hodge, 
whose temper was simply implacable just now, in a measure, be it 
confessed, beecause there was no j\lrs. ]\Iartha chez lui to cook his 
supper and welcome him home, nobody to sew a button on his shirt 
or even to make his bed. The sudden elimination of the sponsorial 
element from his humble domicile had very largely diminished his 
creature comforts, and might alone account for some ceifbral iirita- 
bility. 

“That,” said W^idow Gipps, with profound emphasis, “is the 
bottle.” 

“ Well,” fumed Hodge, “ I’ll say this, IHrs. Gipps, and I hope 
Miss Hester ’ivill repeat it to my wife, for she ougnt to know it. J. 
won’t be beat by the squire— leastways if 1 cau help it. He cimie 
and asked me — 1 says ‘^Ho.’ Then he goes and sends down that 
there grinning London woman, Pratling, and she gets round my 
wife double-quick, and the pair of ’em is'^too much for me. it were 
my wish, it were, to do justly by our boy, come w hat may, artd I’d 
have gone to Australia sooner thjin he should be where he is, and 
his mother a- giving her breast to that kid of Sir Robert’s. But there, 
it wavu’Pto'be. We working-men, I say, would be masters instead 
of slaves if it w'eren’t for the wmmen.” 

“ Don’t you speak against the women in my presence!” said Miss 
Hester, bridling perkily. 

“ Not me, gal. The worst I’d say of you is that j’-ou make too 
good servants. But 1 weren’t a-talkin’ to you. What I’ve to say 
is to Widder Gipps. Look you here, old wmman, 1 wun’t be beat! 
Squire’s taken away my boy’s motlier, but for all that he sha’n’t 
have the boy’s life if T can help it. He’s got money, and wlien he 
wants to gain his end is as free with it as he’s stingy at other times. 
You work for him, and you may starve on a piitance. You sell 
your wife, and — ” 

“ That’s temper, Hodge,” here interrupted Widows Gipps. “ Why 
don’t you come to the point instead of heatin’ about the bush?” 

“ So wu’ll 1, mum. Tue squire’s to give tw'enty pounds in cash 
for the job, besides weekly w^age and keep to my wiie, and the li- 
cense of the Marm^mn Arms from Michaelmas next at the rent old 
Jarvis’s .paid. Now, mum, that twenty shiners was a sop to rne, d'ye 
see, to shut my blessed mouth and stop my cheek, for I were a bit 
outsDoken to Sir Robert wdien he tried to come Emperor of all the 
Roosias over me. Twenty sovereigns, d’ye see, Mrs. Gipps. Twenty 
golden sovereitrns, mum*! T hey ’ll be mine as soon as the job’s done, 
and I’ll hand ’em over to you— yes, to you, ]\Irs. Gipps— if that 
there baby of ouin at the end of that time is alive and strong and as 
fit as the t’other one, as is purloining his subsistence just as his 
father purloins the poor man’s time and-toil, and gives him back, 
no, not halt it’s valley.” 

Hester burst out laughinp-. Mrs. Gipps looked puzzled, not be- 
lieving in her heart that Hodire meant his words, but i:§garding him 
as beside himself with pique and indignation. 


16 CTJSrDEE WHICH KINfi? 

“ What a silly you are!” said the girl. ** I sha’n’t tell your wife 
all that. Why, it would upset her horrible!” 

‘‘And about that there twenty pounds,” cbimed in skeptical 
Widow Gipps, ‘‘don’t you bother yer ’ed, John Hodge, 1 don’t 
want yer monef. Not me. Keep it in your pocket, man.” 

“You don’il You won’t?” shouted John. “'Then you’re in 
the pay of the squire. TJiey’ll make it worth your while, they will, 
to—’' 

.‘‘Hu.sh!” cried Hester. “1 know the Court belter than you. 
That is most unjust. Besides it’s ridic'lous.” 

“Don’t talk to me, young woman,” shouted John Hodge, who 
was waxing insensate in his wrath. “ 1 won’t betray my own ticsh 
and blood. 1 won’t sell my first-born, though my wdfe may. One 
ol, two things, Mrs. Gipps., Either you agree to my terms and save 
that babe’s poor life, or I’ll go straight to the Court and bear away 
my wife whether she likes it or not.” 

“Tut, tut!” protested Widow Gipps, “what thoughts you have 
been a-harboring in that there stupid head ol yours, John Hodge! 
Who was it proposed to give the child to me? ^Yhy, your wife, not 
Sir Robert. And why did she propose it? Because she trusts me, 
and trust she may, and never repent thereof. It it will make your 
mind easier, John, I'll bargain to lake your twenty sovereigns, but 
I don’t require no bribes to cause me to do my duty. I’v# brought 
up six of my own, two on ’em on the bottle, so 1 ought to know, 
oughtn’t 1, John? Oh, you great chuckle-headed, ill-tempered feller 
— to think I’d hurt a hairof that blessed child’s head!” 

“ You ought to ask Mrs. Gipps’s humble parding,” laughed Hes- 
ter, afltectedly. 

John Hodge shrugged his shoulders. He was out-logiced, but not 
quite convinced. 

“ And what’s more,” continued Widow Gipps, “ Sir Robert ain’t 
the iTnd man 3 ’ou make out. He’s give up his best cow for the boy, 
and he sent word to me that he begged I’d be veiy careful about 
the child; for he said, says he to William, who brought the mes- 
sage, he says—* I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to 
that there litlle baby,’ he says.” 

John Hodge snorted, but still remained dumb. 

“ And if you’ll believe me,” added Hester, loftily, “ Sir Robert is 
not the gentleman to forget the sacrifice you’ve made, Hodge, for 
fiitn, nor to think the worse of your objectin’ to make that sacri- 
fice.” 

That was a very diplomatic speech of IMiss Hester, but it was one 
of those shots that being aimed at the gold fly wild. 

“Ah, well,” muttered John Hodge, cynically, “1 see how the 
land lies. There are some people who paint the devil black, and 
others who paint him white. You two are trying to whitewash a 
man who wants it bad, simply because he’s a fine gentleman, with 
manners and money, and all that. You won’t convince me he’s 
white; that I’ll tell you straight. But 1 own this to you — 1 see, 
from what 3 '^ou say, that I’m partly wrong in mj'- calculation, ami 
that the squire he do wish the kid to live. ’Twould be a scandal it 
it died, and he’s one who thinks a deal of his own repitation. Yes, 


UKDER WHICH KIKG? 


17 

youVe made that clear to my mind, and you may tell Martha if 
you will, Hester, that I’m content, as far as 1 can be. Good-night.” 

‘‘ Hie!” cried "Widow Gipps after him, with a laugh of some sig- 
nificance, ” does the twenty sovereigns stand as a bargain, John?” 

‘‘ That it do,” w’as the firm reply. 

And so Miss Hester, who had been already absent too long, kissed 
poor baby, and hurried back to rich baby and his nurse, who was 
performing her maternal function, all smiles and contentment. 

” Well, Mrs. Hodge,” she chirped, in a most satined soprano, 
” what do you think? I’ve been to see your baby.” 

” Dear me,” observed Mrs. Hodge, languidly, in response. 

‘‘And he’s so well and so nice, and Mrs. Gipps is so proud of 
him, and Mr. Hodge looks so happy, and—” 

” That’s all right, Hester. . I’m glad to hear it.” 

And positively Mrs. Hodge yawned. Could callous indifference 
further go? Miss Hester lelt quite indignant and chagrined that 
her exertions to please the unnatural mother should meet with such 
ingratitude. She looked, too, what she felt, to judge by her color, 

‘‘ I’m sure,” yawned Mrs. Hodge, ” I’m too much obliged to you 
but ” — yawn, yawn — ‘‘ 1 be that sleepy.” 

” 1 tiiousrht,” faltered Hester, ” that you’d he glad to hear about 
the little boy. Some mothers might bel” 

Mrs, Hodge looked ‘at her and laughed in a way that Hester con- 
sidered to be alike silly and insulting. 

” But,” continued Hester, ‘‘ 1 see lam mistaken. 1 won’t bother 
about it another time. Ho fear.” 

“Don’t go to lose your temper, Hester,” pleaded Mrs. Hodge, 
awaking to the fact that Hester was rather more than nettled. 
“ There’s nothing much the matter with me except sleepiness. 
It’s that there stout makes one drowsy, don’t it? And how’s John? 
Did he send me ever a message?” 

“ 1 don’t know as he did,” said Hester, dryly. 

“ And j\Irs. Gipps — how’s her rheumaticks?” 

“ Same as usual,” snapped Hester. 

Silence. 

“ Yon don’t ask after babyl” observed the girl, shyly. 

Mrs. Hodge flushed a little, but vouchsafed no reply to this 
pointed rebuke. 

“ If I had a baby out at nurse,” persistea Hester, “ 1 should be 
mis’able: yes, downright inis’able.” 

Again Mrs. Hodge laughed— idiotically, quite. 

“ Weill My!” gasped Hester, duinfounded at her very strange 
mood. “ That there stout have made you pecooliar to-night, JMrs. 
Hodge.” 

“P’raps it have, miss,” retorted Mrs. Hodge, angrily, “and 
p’raps it haven’t. Imt if you mean that a woman’s to fash about 
two babies at once, not being twins, you’re talking about what you 
don’t understand, miss, so there!” 

“Mrs. Hodge!” 

“I’ve almost enough to do, Hester, to attend to one, and 1 tries 
to drive t’other bout of my ’ead. And here you comes and bothers!” 
And Mrs. Hodge positively began to try to whimper as one very ill- 
used indeed. ' 


18 OTDER WHICH KIKG? 

“ l*m very sorry,” persistently urged poor warm-hearted Hester, 

and 1 beg your pardinc:, Mrs. Hodge, though 1 did no worser nor 
wish to please yer. But 1 sees now what it is. 'You’d as liet not 
think about 3^our own bab}’'; and 1 done wrong in interferin’ and 
jawin’ when 1 ought to havehelded my tongue and minded my own 
business.” 

Mrs. Hodge smiled again, to the intense perplexity of this unso- 
phisticated girl, who began to believe herself to be perpetually in the 
wrong. Then she said, quietly, “Don’t let you and me come to 
quarrel, Hester. I’m an oddity, 1 am, and have need to be, but 1 
wish to be friends. Only don’t you interefere, whatever you does, 
or we shall fall out, and no mistake. Now, let’s kiss.” 

Here this dialogue was rudely interrupted by the temporary 
stomachic derangement of baby the rich, who, having Imbibed witli 
human milk the essential poison of London stout, felt gripy, and 
gave tongue loudly to assure his attendants of this internal iDhenome- 
non. 

“Drat the baby; what a row he do kick up,” snarled Hester, 
who, though she had kissed Martha Hodge, still cherished a griev- 
ance. 

“ Don’t say drat him,” retorted the latter, rubbing the infant’s 
part affected solicitously. “ He is a love, he is, and there never was 
such a duck in the world.” 

Hester’s eyes opened very wide indeed. Truly had Mrs, Hodge 
defined herself to be an oddity — an oddity, too, so Hester opined, 
not only eccentric and unaccountable, but positively unnatural. If 
Mrs. Hodge had not been so very pretty she would then and there 
have taken a dislike to her. As it was, Hester, like wiser people, 
cherished the superstition of her sex, that a pretty woman in her 
premiere jeunessie can not be very remote from ideal goodness; and 
so it came to pass that a sweet, rosy complexion, bright eyes, and a 
winsome smile completely magnetized and mesmerized the not very 
brilliant understanding of a simple serving-girl. 

Nevertheless, Mrs. Hodge’s transference of the maternal instinct 
so rapidly from her own to another woman’s child continued to be 
an inscrutable problem to Hester, causing her toretlect much on the 
fickleness of feminine affections. In her heart the girl on this ac- 
count more than half despised Martha Hodge, though for some inde- 
finable reason — possibly the magnetism of beauty — she could not 
help being drawn toward her. 

One evening, being in the housekeeper’s room with that august 
autocrat, Mrs. Binks, and the latter administering by way of dou- 
ceur some rather fortified cowslip wine of the true Marmyon brew. 
Miss Hester’s tongue got relaxed and she waxed confidential to the 
plethoric and portentous housekeeper, of whoim when not under the 
influence of cowslips, she stood normally in e^’emc awe. 

“ Mrs. Hodge,” said she, “ hav’ quite took to our baby.” 

“And a very proper feeling on the part of Missus Sodge— er 
Hodge,” responded Madam Binks, with dignified lassitude. She 
considered it in keeping with the unities to imitate, d la monkey 
and master, the diction of the cultured, and succeeded fairly 
well, except in regard of the letter “h.” This letter being her 
pet weakness, her habit was to drop it and then pick it up again. 


TODER WmOH KIKG? 19 

Hence, after styling Mrs. Hodge “Missus Sorige/’ slie blandly 
arrested berself, as if nothing had happened. 

“ But 'tain’l quite nat’ral, are it. Missus Binks?” 

“It’s natural,” retorted the housekeeper, severely, “to love, 
honor, and succor your social superiors.” 

“ Suckle your superiors!” echoed Hester, not catching the words 
of Mrs. Binks. 

“Succor, girl; that is, to do your duty in that state of life to 
which it has pleased my lady to call you. ” 

‘Oh!” gasped Hester. 

“ But,” continued Mrs. Binks, meditatively, “ in regard, Ester — 
er Il’ester — of the naturalness of nursing, you may take it from me 
as knows the world and its ways, that these prettyish-lookin’ young 
■women of the lower orders, such as Missus Sodge— Misses er Hodge 
—are not much troubled with naturalness. It’s the plain women, 
Ester— er H’cster— that has the deep feelin’s!” And Mrs, Binks 
sighed deeply. She knew herself to be plain, and fancied herself 
sentimental. g 

Hester afterward thought and Drought and thought over this 
enigma and its solution. So after all it was Martha Hodge’s pretty 
face that was an index of an icy heart! Was it possible? 


•0 — 


CHAPTER I. 

“abreast op to-day.” 

Turn the dial of Queen Victoria twenty-two degrees forward. 
These two decades and eight seasons have witnessed changes even in 
the conservative demesne of Marmyon— both Court and village. 
And first as regards the former and more important of the two — 
socially — the great house is, in respect of family, richer by one item 
than it was, for Lady Marmyon managed to bring into" the world 
another son. This event occurred at Rome, a year and a half alter 
the birth of the first-born, and the part played by Martha Hodge for 
Plantagenet Marmyon, the heir, was taken successfully for Errol, the 
second son, by an Italian peasant. It was to this circumstance that 
the world attributed the last-named gentleman’s dark complexion 
and peculiar suppleness of limb, which contrasted oddly and incon- 
gruously with the pale, rather washy eye he had inherited from his 
lady mother, and in a far greater degree with the square shoulders 
and Samson-like build of Plantagenet. A wag nicknamed the 
brothers the hero and the villain, and the jest stuck. As for Sir 
Robert he had grown grizzled and irritable, while his wife was given 
to lying on sofas, to die-away airs, and generall}’' to the rule of the 
imaginary invalid. Of the socially unimportant portion of the 
establishment, ihe retainers, Mrs. Binks having developed too pro- 
nounced a penchant for fortified cowslips, had been compulsorily re- 
tired on a pension, and was residing at Learning! on; not, however, 
in the character of an ex-housekeeper, but as widow of a physician, 
Binks, deceased forty years back, having been really and truly a 
cow-doctor, though primarily his profession was that of hostler, 


20 UKDER WHICH KIHG? 

In her place reigned Hester, who, thou^^h innocent of the sweets of 
matrimony, had received brevet-rank, and was known and addressed 
by her proper surname under the style of Mrs. Mazebrook — in the 
drawing-room, ot course, as “ Mazebrook” simply, without the pre- 
fix ” Mrs,,” which the servants were under obligation to apply to 
her. But Hester had not quite such a prosperous reign as her pre- 
decessor, for agricultural depression had set in, agricultural laborers 
were clamoring for higher wages, while farmers, in despair of light- 
ing the candle at both ends, of satisfying a heavier Saturday night 
as" well as extortionate agent, were throwing up their holdinirs. Con- 
sequently, Sir Robert initiated domestic reform with vigor, and Hes- 
ter, on her transformation into Mrs. Mazebrook, was made clear l.y to 
understand that the Biuks regime of peculation and waste w’ould 
have to cease, and that in future the servants’ hall must drink 
eighteen-penny tea and digest American beef— if it could. No more 
Darjeeling or prime Scotch, no more Welsh mutton and Edinburgh 
ale i'elow’^ stairs. Economy w as forever to be the order of the day, 
and Sir Robert rightly trusted to a wmman of Hester Mazebi’ook’s 
extreme simplicity of character to enforce it. Of the rest William 
Benson, the gardener, remained, but Harry Hodge, John’s elder 
brother, the keeper, had been shot dead by poachers, and his wu'dow 
and family were enjoying the luxury ot the wmrkhouse. Sir Robert 
avowing himself quite too poor to provide for them, a plea which 
clearly admitted of justification, inasmuch as even with some farms 
unoccupied and others let at a reduced rental, his income, net, from 
all souices did not much exceed fifteen thousand a year. Ihe 
thought ot that might have consoled Widow' Harry in her grim cap- 
tivity, the more so because she was a w'eakly w’oman, about as ill- 
fitted to withstand the insolent tyranny of w^orkhouse officialism as 
Lady Marmyon herself would have been, had that superlative speci- 
men of femininity chanced to suffer such areveiseot fortune as 
would have placed her delicate back under its iron hand. 

In the village there had been graver mutations ot fortune’s wheel 
than at the Court. Dr. Plethoric, the vicar, who had lived at 
Bournemouth for his health’s sake, and for the spiritual health of 
his flock, had provided the ministrations ot a gentleman ot small 
voice and flaccid disposition, one who voted nonqntity humility, 
had paid in the efflux of time the debt of nature. To him succeeded, 
by favor of her ladyship — not by'^ any' means of Sir Robert, who 
w’anted a hunting-parson— the Rev. Cyril Orphrey. This divine, 
having metamorphosed everything and offended everybody', wuis 
manfully essaying to live dowm both the metamorphosis and offense 
and to atone for his Ritualism by profuse liberality. \\ idow Gipps, 
now an aa:ed, crippled, and deaf old body, called him an anjrel, but 
Farmer Rodd, abigoted believer in Calvin, a devil; while the baron- 
et tacitly adopted his tenant’s view, and his- w’ile that of the old 
woman. In fact, the entire parish was split between the Pro and 
the Anti-Orphrey factions; and of course the autajronisiic disposi- 
tions of Plantagenet and Errol drew them in opposite directions, the 
elder supporting his sire, and the younger his mother. 

But the chief change in the village w'as at the Marmyon Arms. 
That temple of Bacchus proved, as John Hodge in his soul believed 
it would be, a curse. It changed pretty, graceful Martha into an 


UKDER WHICH KIJTG? 21 

animated tub, loud of tongue and bold of visage, but its effects were 
worse upon John himself. At first the simple tellow was sparing 
of the dangerous fluid now entirely at his disposition, nevertheless 
little by little he grew moie selt-indulgent, until at last liquor be* 
came his master. The house thiived fairly well, for the making of 
a new railway brought custom, and even at his weakest John Hodge 
was virile enough to hold his own with the navvies. But the more 
the “ pub” prospered, the more John imbibed, until at last the end 
came. John, being carried to bed fuddled, in the morning was found 
stone dead. It was a nine days’ wonder, and the license was trans- 
ferred to his widow. 

There remains one individual to be noted — that child wdiom Martha 
Hodge consigned with so little external mental disquietude to the 
charge of Widow Gipps. He was christened Robert, and in due course 
sent for education to the village school, where learning seemed as it it 
were child’s play to him. He devek’ped in boyhood an extraordinary 
passion for booKs, and when, later on, Mr. C)fphrey came to the vic- 
arage, he pronounced him to be one of the most remaikable youths 
he had ever known — an encomium not quite unmerited, for Robert’s 
mind had an amazing power of assimilation, and his imagination 
was ideal. As a young man, his slight, elegant figure, quick per- 
ceptions, and bright manner rendered him au object of admiration. 
In the bar of the Marmyon Arms, the graziers and travelers who 
stopped to wet their own and horses’ months would ask for a song 
from Robert with their pint, and if Robert was in the humor, would 
enthusiastically confess to the fascination of tenor notes that only re- 
quired training to render their possessor an artist of eminence. 
Nevertheless, the older Robert grew the less inclined was he to con- 
stitute himself a draw to the public-house. In vain jMartha tried to 
persuade him— in her own interest, fler word was anything but law 
to the young man. She had administered unto him in his boyhood, 
indeed in his infancy, more culls than halfpence, and made no secret 
of her intention to reserve the *' House ” lor her only other child, 
Miss Belinda— which romantic form of nomenclature had been sug- 
gested to Martha’s mind by an exciting periodical entitled “The 
London Love Story”— a strapping young maiden of eighteen, en- 
dowed with the arras of Laocoon and the tongue of Xantippe. 
Robert, in fact, rose above his position and surroundings, he declined 
to be fettered by Mrs. Hodge’s apron-strings, and when that robust 
woman blasphemed him for a lout and a fool, his reply was to walk 
out of the Marmyon Arms— where he had full license to loiter and 
booze so long as he cared to cultivate the customers - euLuige himself 
as day-laborer under Farmer Rodd, and sunder his family ties alto- 
gether. People said it was his pritle, his temper, his eCcentiicity, 
yet they may have judged the young man harshly. It was partly 
Mr. Orplirey who bad indoctrinated him with a contempt toi the 
ethics of the' pot-house; partly the result of a cerebral development 
superior to that of his compeers; partly, strange to relate, a love of 
solitude. Sharpening hop-poles in the undfi wood or hoeing turnips, 
Robert w^as in the company of his thoughts, which, if it be allowed 
to boirow a simile from nature, were surcharged with electricity. 
Whereas, when jostled against by his fellows, he was not only 
cramped but somehow dragged down from his ideal level to theirs, 


22 


r^BER WHICH KIHG? 


whiclilwas clegradingly mundane. To him serfdom under Farmer 
Ivodd meant freedom; freedom behind the bar of the Marmyon 
Arms serfdom. 

It was lucky for Widow Gipps that his oddity assumed this, form, 
for the poor old soul having become a martyr to rheumatism was 
unable to earn her few shillings a week by washing, and would have 
been shipped olt, without her opinion being asked, to the work- 
house, had not Robert at the critical moment agreed to become her 
lodger. Widow Gipps had throughout these long years never ceased 
to exhibit a genuine interest in the boy she had brought up by hand 
with more than common care, and it was because Robert felt intui- 
tively that she loved him as a son that he accepted her very humble 
quarters as a substit ute for home. 

He had his reward, for within a month of his taking up his abode 
in her house, Giles Williams came to be shepherd to Farmer Rodd 
and was allotted the cottage next door, vice John Mobbs, ejected for 
chronic inebriety and occasional rabbit-stealing, whereof the latter 
happened to be in the farmer’s eyes the more heinous offense of the 
two. And Giles Williams brought to his new straw-thatched home 
not only his wife, a woman who spent her time in ailing and her 
breath in complaining, not only four children of various ages, but 
his daughter Polly also, and Polly was the Lily Langtry of Mar- 
myon Village. All the swains fell in love with her. Piantagenet 
avowed she was splendid, but confided his attention to admiration at 
a respectful distance. Errol cast upon her a gaze that meant mis- 
chief. But Polly had soon no eyes except for Robert. 


CHAPTER 11 . 
cnass puhposes. 

There were grand doings in progress at Marmyon Court. His 
Serene Highness the Prince of Slumkinhausen, the relative of 
royalty and, be it added, its pensioner— the Grand Duchy of Slum- 
kinhausen being doubtless exceedingly grand and exceedingly ducal, 
but pecuniarily a barren honor, well, this ineffable serenity had gra- 
ciously accepted an invitation — no, not quite that, had invited himself 
—to a battue and ball which Sir Robert and Lady Marmyon had 
organized for the first week in October. 

An event so abnormal as the visit of a personage of the social im- 
portance attaching necessarily to serenity could not but create the 
profoundest interest in the surrounding district. Triumphal arches 
were discussed, chiefly by tradesmen who hoped to have a finger in 
the 30b, and it was surmised by the very credulous that Sir Robert 
Marm5mn would display the traditional hospitality of his ancient 
race by standing his tenants and their laborers a teed. -Mr. Orphrey, 
too, seriously contemplated some sort of ornamental function tor 
>hebenefi tot the illustrious SluniKinhausen, but desisted on learning 
that his seienity was an avowed disciple of Strauss. As for the 
surrounding nobility and gentry, they were in a wild state of jubila- 
tion. Their males thrilled with the expectation of toadying one who 
was almost royal; their females, of the matronly variety, hugged 


tJIirDEE WHICH Kixa? 23 

themselves with theconvictiDn that association with anything serene 
implied some sort ot moral elevation; their daughters didn’t care a 
rush for serenity, Slumkinhauscn, or sham royalty, but they did 
care tor Terpsichore; and the chance of a downiight good dance, a 
new dress, and a trifle in the way of polite love niaking, all in the 
dull month ot October, was quite too excellent not to insure their 
hearty appreciation. As tor the youngsters, they relished the 
butchery much, and the ball just a little. A smoking-concert would 
have been more to their taste — it wmuld harmonize also with the ideas 
of their prototypes and superiors in sacrificial dexterity, the Dept- 
ford Slaughtermen— still a ball, though rather a bore, was made up 
for in their refined sight by a previous aceldama of pheasants’ blood. 
Faut tuer qiielque chose is the motto of our cultured British bar- 
barians. 

The Court itself was crammed in anticipation of the arrival of his 
serene highness. There was the Duchess- dowager of Wolverhamp- 
ton, a gay old dame who would win your ruoney honestly if she 
could, but w'ould anyhow win your money at any game of chance 
wherein you might have the*supreme felicity of encountering her. 
With her was her sister, Miss McFiddle, of some place beginning 
with “ Bally,” in Galway, and her grace’s unmarriageable daughter. 
Lady Narcissa Hardiwar. Then there w;rs another fascinating 
widow, Mrs. Frankalmoign, and her daughter Ida, the beauty e/i 
posse of next season ; Professor Augustus Lembic, the young Oxonian 
scientist, who had discovered in Errol IMarmyon a genius for phys- 
iological investigation; and halt a score of colonels, captaitis, and 
mashers, including that very clever gentleman. Captain Dolopy, 
who, having found his regiment rather too warm, lor reasons not 
unconnected with a needle and a pack of cards, quitted the army 
and embraced the honorable profession of promoter, lie came on 
business, viz., to form aboard of direction, to include, it possible, 
the name of ll.S.ll.; for his scheme, he flattered himself, was one 
deserving \he very highest x^atronage, being, in fact, nothing less 
than the connection of Algiers and Natal by means of direct tram- 
way. 

With so select and charming a company, the Marmyon family had 
their hands full; tor with the exception ot Dr. Lembic, who owned 
a brain and a tongue, and the dowager-duchess, who was gifted with 
a tongue but very little brain, all the pretty ireople required enter- 
taining. Lady Marmyon was in the moXn— malgre her lackadaisaical 
airs— a good hostess, but she forgot in arranging her party that essen- 
tial of modern society, the polished buffoon. If there had only been 
imported an aristocratic low-comedy man her task would have been 
infinitely lightened. As it was, she and her husband and her two 
sons had perforce to talk restlessly, to flatter Mrs. Frankalmoign, to 
drop the sweetest speeches into lovely Ida Frankalmoign’s lap, to 
cow-tow skinny, Irish McFiddle from Galway, and try and knock a 
gleam of intelligence out of Narcissa Ilardiwar, who was less than 
half-witted; and withal to hee-haw with the_ colonels and caplains 
and sympathize with the locomotive necessities ot the pox^ulations 
bordering on Sahara, Captain Doloi^iy’s one topic. It w-as all very 
nice, no doubt, but it seemed to bo rather too laborious for a con- 
tinuance. 


24 UNDER WHICH KING? 

We En polish are a practical people. Even our pleasures contain 
largely the element of business, though the cloven hoof of selt-in- 
terest'be concealed beneath a cloak of hospitality. All these people 
tvere asked to Marmyon for a purpose, and not because they were 
individually wanted. The duchess because of her strawberry leaves; 
Dr. Leinbic because Sir Robert cherished a hope that he would get 
Errol a science fellowship; Dolop}'- because he had given several very 
straight Stock Exchange tips whereby the jMarmyon exchequer had 
benefited; item, because in the event of ll.S.H. foining the board of 
The Natal and Algiers Tramway Company, Sir Robert was to re- 
ceive a douceur of shares on allotment; the colonels, captains, and 
mashers, partly as dancing partners for the girls who were expected 
at the ball, partly as professional butchers, and partly for subsidiary 
reasons, which it would be prolix to append in extenso; lastly, Mrs. 
Erankaimoigu and her daughter Ida, because the latter was endowed 
both with looks and consols, and would, according to the opinion 
of Sir Robert and his wife, exactly tit their son Rlantagenet. 

As for H.S.H., he was included, as has been staled, by his own 
suggestion, but chiefly as the pinnacle of the social structure. Be- 
sides which he had acquired a reputation for being the amnt courier 
of royalty. It was whispei'ed that if he spoke favorably of the sport 
and of the people, if the pheasants were plentiful, and there was no 
Puritanical sentiment lirrking in secret places so as to interfere with 
ro 3 "alty’s little pleasures, then the master might follow in the steps 
of the monkey. Now Sir Robert, as became a loyal citizen, was 
sincerely ambitious' of entertaining a social sublimity of the first 
rank. It would cost a few thou.sands, but it would also double his 
importance in, the county, and might — wha knows?— lead to the 
offer of a peerage. The advent of therefore,, teemed with 

the rosiest possibilities. 

He came, bringing rrith him a body-guard in seedy habiliments, 
whom he addressed as Fritz, and designated, in season and out of 
season, “ von schiupid chack-tonkey.” He imported also into the 
sacial circle a hideous self-satisfied German grin, certainly one of the 
most repulsive grimaces in creation. Otherwise he was polite, 
pleased with everything, desperately attentive to Ida Frankalmoign 
—by no means quite to Sir Robert's satisfacion— while late in the 
evening he got rather glorious on hock, and boasted to “ Blandagened” 
—as he Teulonically christened him— “ Ha, my good vellow, I veel 
trink you try.” The pheasants had a bad time of it in front of his 
Serenity’s gun, for where he did not miss them he mangled them, 
and the worse he shot the more he seemed, by his loud laughter, to 
enjoy the spectacle of his owm cruel incapacity. 

After the butchery and ball his serene highness returned to the 
serenity of his. apartments in a certain royal palace which shall be 
nameless, where normally he vegetated in serene grandeur and serener 
penury, a pensioner of superb relatives. With him evaporated the 
giddy duchess, the colonel and masher clique, Dolopy, and, in fine, 
the entire company except IMrs. and Miss Frankalmoign, who were 
especially pressed to remain for a fortnight, for reasons obvious 
enough, but which the judicious widow declined to see. Neverthe- 
less, she knew her cards, and played them like a true woman of the 
world. 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


26 


What a very fine man your son Plantagenet is, Lady Marmyonl” 
she remarked, the afternoon following the general exit. 

The fond mother, who, now the house was clear of serenity and 
graciousness, had returned to her sofa-existence, gazed languidly out 
of the window to behold that young gentleman, with Errol and 
Agatha Orphrey, the nun-like sister of the village padre, indulging 
in tenuis. 

“ "Yes,” she replied, “ Planny is large— too large. 1 can’t think 
where he got those St. Bernard-dog-like hands and feet of his, and 
that colossal figure. I'm sure none of my people w'ere behemoths, 
and as for Sir Robert, when we married, his waist might have been 
the envy of girls, and to ihis hour he only wears sevens.” 

‘‘ But,” pleaded Mrs. Frankalmoign, ‘‘ Plantagenet is so manly. 
Doesn’t he row in the Dark Blue Eight?” 

‘‘Oh, yes.” 

‘‘ And didn’t he throw a hammer, or put a stone, or perform 
some other herculean feat?” 

” I think so,” drawled Lady Marmyon. “ It was very creditable, 
no doubt. But I wish he had either the brain or esprit of Eriol, 
poor animal!” 

‘‘ That would be a pity,” rejoined the clever widow, ” because, 
don’t you see, Errol, not being an eldest son, has to fight the battle 
of life, and really requires, talent as a sort of stock-in-trade, whereas 
Plantagenet’s rOle is cut-and-dried, and one does not expect him to 
do more than play the grand seigneur and behave himself.” 

’ ” Oh, as regards behavior,” sneered Lady Marmyon, there can 
be no question of contrast. Planny always was the stupid good boy, 
and Errol the quick-witted bad one.” And Lady Marmyon smiled 
— oddly, indeed mysteriously. Not so Mrs. Frankalmoign. She, 
following her hostess’s eyes, perceived at a glance the significance of 
that peculiar amused expresson. The fact was, Errol was making 
love to her precious Ida, and that young lady was reciprocating his at- 
tention, while ” Planny ” — who had had a hint concerning the beau- 
tiful heiress, and was more than anxious to ingratiate himself — was 
standing by rather vexed and considerably out of temper with things 
in general. 

*' 1 think,” remarked Mrs. Frankalmoign, ” I’ll join those young 
people in the garden, my dear Lady Marmyon. Ida is really too 
imprudent. This cold autumnal blast, and nothing over her shoul- 
ders! Really, really!” 

And so mamma descended upon the pair who were disposed to 
mate regardless of propriety and dutifulness, and dispersed them. 
Then Plantagenet essayed to take up the running, but Miss Ida, who 
disliked maternal interference, was monosyllabic and prim to the 
verge of rudeness, and the big man, not relishing a series of snubs, 
retired discomfited. 

This game of cross-purposes was rehearsed for three days, much 
to the amusement of Lady Marmyon, and to the intense annoyance 
of both Sir Robert and Mrs. Frankalmoign. 7 he match had been 
tacitly arranged, and yet here was Enol playing marplot. The 
baronet, moreover, knew well enough that the choice did not lie be- 
tween the two brothers. Had that been so, he would have congratu- 
lated Errol on his fortune. But a worldly woman like Mrs, 


26 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


Frankalmoign would never accept a second son for her daugliter. 
She coveted the title and estate, though both were only in reversion, 
for Sir Robert was but little more than fifty and might li\^e to be a 
hundred. He realized, therefore, the utter impossibility of this 
pme of Errol’s, and felt downright angry with the 3^oung‘fellow for 
interfering withiiis elder brother. 

It was not, however, his custom — neither is it usually the custom 
of his order— to express their sentiments on matters of delicacy with 
frankness. He contrived to get his own way by a species of 
diplomacy that was transparent, yet not candid. His tactics were to 
outflank and not to meet directly. In this respect he diflered Mo 
cpdo from his elder son. 

One morning he button-holed Errol, affectionately.- “My dear 


bo}',” he said, “ I’ve had a letter from Strensham asking me to come 
, week in Nottinghamshire. I can’t go with these people 


and stop a 

m the house, no more can Planny; so I’ve wriiten to Strensham to 
say that 3'ou will take m3^ place at his battues. Lucky tor you mv 

bo^!” 7 > r 

i. Errol did not reciprocate his sire’s affected cheeriness. 

Hoirid bore,’’ he muttered; “ I don’t want to go to Lord Streiis- 
hap’s. 1 hale Lord Strensham. Why don’t Planny goV It would 
suit him, and he’s a better shot than 1 am. Besides, why am 1 the 
scape-goat?’’ 

. “ I'ly clear Errol,” replied the baronet, changing front with amaz- 
ing celerity, “ to be frank with you, Planny is wanted here and you 
are not! Now, do 3^11 see, dear boy?” 

“And to bs equally frank with you, father, Planny is not 
wanted here and I am.” 

“ Errol?” 

“That is to say, if Ida Frankalmoign’s wants are wLat you are 
talking about.” 

“I understand you, Errol,” replied Sir Robert, “and anyhow^ 
you have shown your hand. My dear fellow, don’t make a fool of 
yourself. Miss Ida may prefer you to Planny, but recollect this— 
she can marry Plann3', she can’t marry you.” 

“ Why not?” 

“ Because ] say so. Because 1 know her mother’s mind. Because 
3"0ur own common sense must tell 3^11 so.” 

“ All right,” rejoined Errol, doggedly. “ I don^t want the girl to 
map3’’ me, but 1 xvon’t go to Lord Streusham’s. ” 

_ “ As you like But if not, you will go to Oxford. Terms begin 
• in a fortnight, lou can go to Hr. Lembic’s till then. He will be 
charmed to receive you.” 

An evil look overspread Errol’s dark features, and the flash of fire 
m his usually expressionless blue eyes suggested the hate of Cain 
He did not care, however, to disobey his father altogether, so he 
packed up his traps and departed for Alma Mater, leaving Plantatr- 
enet master of the situation. ° ® 

Love, however, will find out the w^ay. Before leaving, EitoI con- 
tnved an interview with Ida Frankalmoign, thanks to the friendly 
offices of two maids, who arranged their tryst with secrecy and 
safety. Hitherto, he had merely flirted and flattered, now he needs 
must ascend to earnest, for Errol’s was not the type of nature that 


UKBER WHICH KIHG? 27 

suffers defeat easily, and liere lie held the trump card in the palm of 
his hand — in his own opinion. 

Ida he.ard his whisl;)ered love tremulously. She was little more 
than a school-girl, just out, and thought him the most beautiful of 
created beings; indeed, when their lips met, her rapture was in- 
tense. Being, however, coy and shy, under an entirely novel con- 
dition ot existence, her words were few and simple. She loveil him 
— yes, indeed, she did; and would he write from Oxford under cover 
to Janet, the maid? Whereunto he swore eagerly that he would 
live and die tor her, and go through fire and water for her sake, if 
she would wait for him till she was of age, when her mother’s 
authority would be limited, and they could be united. 

And thus with kisses and squeezes the pact was struck and ratified 
by an exchange of roses — the only gifts that happened to be handy. 
It was the love of boy and girl, quite as much play as earnest; yet in 
his case a passion tJiat might grow and expand, thereby, in respect 
of possibility, differing from hers, which was rather of the nature of 
a tender emotion, titillated by flattery, yet in essence ephemeral. 
She loved Errol because he had been courtly and nice, because she 
admired him, because she had enjoyed new feelings in consequence 
of his idolatry : yet when he was gone she laughed as merrily as 
ever, and was mischievously disposed to meet Plantagenet half-way. 
In short, the girl’s love was mixed largely with liking, and she 
hardly realized how shallow it was, and how little she knew her own 
too malleable, plastic mind. 

Her constancy was soon to be put to the test. Janet, her very 
obliging maid, and Sarah, the Marmyon domestic, who had com- 
bined forces together in order to arrange that critical interview, had 
a tiff' — about a young man, of course — and Sarah, out ot sheer spite, 
intercepted Errol’s ardent epistles to his Ida, and locked them up 
in her box. Hence, after Ida had written tw^o very maidenly and 
modest love-letters to Oxford, and had received no response, her 
pride took huff and she wrote no more. 

Then, in revenge, as she fancied for his unfaithfulness, she began 
to endure Plantagenet’s attentions, and perhaps just a little to relish 
them, albeit she candidly told her mother that if he proposed she 
should administer a decided refusal, adding, significantly, “The 
man knows 1 don’t care for him. He has no right to ask me. 1 
have never given him the slightest encouragement.” 

Plantagenet, however, quietly persevered. He was resolved to 
win her if he could, for her beauty and sweetness cast a spell over 
the huge, magnanimoas, simple-hearted fellow. But his plain, 
honest nature forbade confidence on his part. Ida did not know the 
man. He would never ask to be refused. He would ask only it 
raorall}'' certain of an affirmative answer. 

At the other end— at Oxford — Errol was father in consternation 
at Ida’s sudden silence, but it happened that there was plenty to 
occupy his mind. He had been, as has already been stated, a 
student of science — that is to say, chiefly ot chemistry. Being now 
the guest ot Dr. Augustus Lembic, he naturally fell in with the 
pursuits of^hat great physiologist, whose fesearches' had, as was 
affirmed, gained tor him an European r-eputation. There was, in 
truth, an affinity between Lembic, the son ot a Scotch baker, and 


2 $ 


UMEE WHICH KIHCr 


Errol, the progeny of a baronet of ancient lineage. Both were by 
instinct utterly unscrupulous and sublimely selfish. Both were 
gifted with a certain brain-power and a quick perceptive faculty. 
Both were reckless about the torture they indicted; indeed, Errol 
had enjoyed his brother’s vexation at Ida’s preference for him almost 
as much as the sweet girl’s soft kiss. Hence, when he discovered 
that his friend and patron Dr. Lembic’s favorite pastime was in 
vivisection, he entered into it with all the zest of enthusiasm, indeed 
wiih a natural aptitude for the sport. 

One morning the breakfast-table at Marmyon Court was thrown 
into a flutter. Lady Maiiuyon, the last of the party to arrive, cried, 
“Dear me, quite a long letter from Errol ! What can it be-all 
about ? There, dear Robert, read it out tor everybody’s edification.” 

yir Kobert, thus challenged, fixed his on the bridge of his 

nose, and focussed his attention on the epistle of his second son. 
Lucky, perhaps, he did so, for the color fled suddenly from Ida 
Erankalinoign’s shell-pink cheeks, and her heart began to palpitate 
terribly. She felt, in truth, almost suffocated, 

“ Shall 1 read it out?” he asked. “ Yes 1 Is that the general 
verdict? Then, attention. 


“ ‘ My dearest Mother,—! am having a high old time of it 
here.’ 

(“ Tut-tut I how 1 hate this vile American slang. ’Varsity men 
thirty years ago abhorred slang, and 1 wish we could keep clear now- 
adays of sucii vulgarity. It’s democratic; it’s— Oh, where was 

“ ‘ A high old time of it here. Lembic is perfectly splendid. He is 
the apostle of investigation, and I am thankful to have been 
associated with his meprivee; for now that 1 am behind the scenes, 
and can daily witness the high-priest of science sacrificing upon the 
altar of physiological inquiry, 1 realize fully his zeal and devotion. 
He has made me temporarily his assistant, the fellow who performs 
that duty having gone to Florence to witness some glorious experi- 
ments on dogs and liorses by a great luminary named Schiff, who 
has done more for the advancement of truth — for as Lembic says, 
truth and knowledge are one — than any man of the age. It is hard 
work, 1 assure you. We get through on an average two dogs a day, 
besides cats, guinea-pigs, mice, and an occasional monkey— a great 
treat, you know. Lembic is most generous. He never spares his 
pocket in order to secure suitable subjects, and only yesterday paid 
three sovereigns for a retriever, who was used up in the course of a 
few hours, owing to an unfortunate slip of the knife, which entered 
a vital part. 1 was really very sorry for poor Lembic, as this dog 
ought to have lasted a series of experiments, and with luck and 
economy might have lived a week. It was partly my fault too, 1 
think, in neglecting to hand Lembic the proper Instrument at the 
right moment, so— to make up for his loss— 1 have promised him 
my old setter-dog, Flo, and 1 will get you to send her oft by train 
to-morrow. Bhe is tough enough, and besides, as she knows me 
and is fond of me, 1 slmll be able to keep her quiet; for in spite of 
the straps the animals will occasionally injure themselves in their 
writhings. Flo will make a capital subject, and 1 shall heartily en- 


TODER WHICH KING? 39 

joy studying the internal mechanism of the pet of my school-hoy 
days. 1 am glad to say there is no humanitarian nonsense about 
Lembic. H( entirely dispenses wiih ancesthetics in vivisection, as 
a rule, though occa'^ionally, for rouveuience’s sake, it an animal is 
very restive, he administers a dose of curari, -which, by the way, 
pays the beggars out tor their disagreeableuess, as it intensities the 
pain. It is very absurd that we can not m Oxfoid operate on horses, 
but there is a difficulty even abo*ut dogs, the prejudices of certain 
dons being so very strong. Lembic, however, never submits to dic- 
tation. He complies with the tyrannical, meddlesome act of Par- 
liament, just when it suits his convenience— not otherwise; in tact, 
his stereotyped joke is, “Now, gentlemen, we will proceed toper- 
form an act of startling and heinous illegality.” Illegality, indeed, 
as if either he or 1 or any other devotee of science were going to be 
Act of Parliamcnted! And now, to conclude this long letter, 1 hope 
every one is flourishirg at Marmyon, including, of course, Mrs. and 
Miss Frankalmoign, to whom please give my kindest remembrances. 

“ ‘ Your afiectionate son, 

“ ‘ Ebrol. 

“ ‘ P.S.— Don’t forget to send “ Flo.” ’ ” 

Er— ah” gasped Sir Robert, dropping his 'pince-nez; “ the boy 
is enthusiastic, very, and I share his respect for science and its vota- 
ries. But as regards the old dog ‘ Flo,’— 1 — er— ah! don’t quite 
know. These experiments are, er — ah! rather — ” 

“ What does Errol want to do with * Flo asked Ida, quite in- 
nocently, for in her trepidation she hardy realized the purport of 
her lover’s letter. * 

“Cut her up alive. Torture her, not for hours, but for days,” 
murmured the deep voice of Plantagenet. “ And, by heavens, fa- 
ther 1” he added, the blood swelling the veins in his broad forehead, 
“ he sha’n'tl” 

“ Torture! Errol torture a poor dog!” gasped Ida. 

“ Yes, my dear,” glibly interposed her mamma. “ The doctors 
do that sort of thing, you know. It’s necessary.” 

Ida turned pale and her lips closed. This was indeed a revelation, 
and one she never, never expected. 

“ Er — ah!” continued Sir Robert. “ Theoretically, physiological 
investigation is admirable. Practically, it goes against ones senti- 
mental] t}'- when the subject selected happens to be an old pet, and 1 
agree wilh you, Planny, Errol should consider that others are in- 
terested in Flo besides himself. As a matter of principle, however, 
1 am with the vivisectors. The lives of the animals are placed at 
our disposal, just as we utilize the lives of the lower orders of our 
own species for our benefit. And, really, when one comes to re- 
flect on the philosophy of the thing, the difference between ending 
Flo’s days slowly by Dr. Lerabic’s skillful knife, and relegating an 
old creature like’ Widow Gipps to the prolonged vivisection— moral 
vivisection, 1 mean, not physical— of tiie workhoufe, resembles that 
which distinguished Handel from Buononcini — tweedle-dum and 
tweedle-deo. Ha! ha I Whv, 31iss Ida, you don’t look well!” 

“ No wonder,” said Plantagenet, “ the subject is disgusting in 
the extreme!” 


so UNDER WHICH KING ? . . 

“It is,” faltered Ida, rising and leaving the table hurriedly, in 

advance of the rest of the party. 

* * * * * 

“ Mamma,” said Ida, that evenmg, as the fond mother came to 
perform the genial office of bed-tucking — a real pleasure by the way, 
for Mrs. Frankalmoign, a beautiful woman herself, keenly relished 
the angelic loveliness of hef only child — “ mamma, shall I tell you a 
little secret?” 

“I hope, dear,” responded mamma, giving the pillows a vigor- 
ous shake, “ that you will never have any secrets from me. We 
are friends, are we not?” 

Ida’s large eyes gazed lustrously at her mother; then she held up 
her face for a kiss, and brushed away the rising tear that persisted 
in coursing down her downy cheek. 

“ I will never have another secret,” she cried, passionately. “ 1 
am sure secrets are a curse. ’ ’ 

“ And this one— the particular little skeleton in the cupboard?” 
smiled Mrs. Frankalmoign, interrogatively. 

“ Oh, nothing. It’s over— dead, buried, forgotten,” mused the 
girl. Then she added, rather jerkily, “ It is only that fellow, Errol 
Marmyon, mamma dear. 1 thought I loved him just a little. But 
I don’t! 1 mistook my feelings altogether. In fact, 1 detest him 
and his cruel, wicked ways.” 

“ 1 thought Errol was attentive!” remarked Mrs. Frankalmoign, 
“ but 1 did not expect the afiair had gone so far.” 

“ Nor has it,” responded Ida, impetuously. “ Errol did tell me 
he loved me, and 1 told him 1 loved him, and we exchanged some 
flowers. That is all.” 

“ But,” said mamma, gravely, “ that is too much.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because you had no right to play with Errol. He is a man.” 

“ And Errol,” she answered, “ is not the man 1 thought. He is 
very agreeable, and that sort of thing, but what a hideous monster 
to think of torturing poor Flo!” 

She meant also, “ And what a blackguard never to answer my 
letters!” That confidence, however, was not for mamma’s ear. it 
would have led to Janet’s dismissal, and Janet Miss Ida considered 
to be her very good friend, as indeed the girl was.^ 

Mrs. Frankalmoign la.ighed at her daughter’s earnestness, but 
like a prudent woman avoided the discussion of a dangerous topic. 
Inwardly, however, she registered a resolve to keep Ida and Errol 
apart. A second son at best is the reverse of an eligible parti, and 
this one appeared to have all the devil of both his parents and of all 
his ancestors concentrated in his proper person. “ Not good 
enough,” muttered the affectionate mother, and she took away her 
daughter’s candle and closed the door behind her. 

The Marmyon Woods, trending ihe length of the chalk hills for 
miles, and confeiy;ing an inestimable boon on the dwellers in the 
valley by breaking the force‘of the northern and eastern blasts, are 
the glory of Kent. In that sweet and genial clime the variety of 
foliage strikes the North-country eye with amazement. There 
flourish in profusion oak and beech, ash, bryony, and maple, while 
here and there a few firs or larches intrude in this land of green 


31 


Ui^DER KIXO? 

toresiiy; but, best of all, the giant yews, which were planted in the 
reigns of the Ilenrys aud Edwards, to supply those superb boughs 
which gave the Saxon archers the pre-eminence at Cressy and 
Poictiers, These monsters ot the forest on the sides of"the hills Im- 
part a grandeur equaled only by the rich and rare splendor of the 
Chillerns, than which there exists no nobler range of forest-clad 
hills in Europe. The borders of the forest laud of the JMarmyons 
were bedecked with orchis, primrose, violet, aud fern, but you must 
have a care how you tread the mossy banks ot that garden ot Eden, 
for they are guarded by vipers ot a deadly sort. The woodmen and 
keepers have little fear of the snakes, for they wear thick boots and 
leather gaiters to protect the legs, but without this species of armor 
the bolmiist or artist or poet runs a fine chance of terminating his 
natural me suddenly and painfully. 

It was an exquisite October morning. The leaves had just begun 
to turn, and green, red, aud yellow tints were blended with a wealth 
that almost fatigued the eye. 7'iiere was not a breath of air, only a 
soft sun, veiled with a sort of gossamer mist. The year had begun 
to die, but its decadence was even more superb than its meridian. 

‘J Was there ever anything in the world so perfect?” murmured 
Ida, her liquid orbs thrilling with pleasure as she gazed upon the 
overhanging Flesset wood, wherein, amid the gnarled oaks, the eye 
.might discern the ruins of Flesset Castle, a fortress built by 
Marmyon the Norman, and defended by the 'Marmyou of Charles 
the First’s reign, against the guns of Fairfax, needless to add, un- 
successfully. 

‘‘ It IS really the sweetest spot on the estate,” smiled Lady ]\Iar- 
myon, approvingly. She quite relished the family grandeur being 
appreciated, and the louder the praise the more she liked it. 

” 1 wonder,” remarked Mrs. Frankalmoign, “ whether Plan- 
tagenet is ever coming with the luncheon-basket? He was to meet us 
at one, and it is now half-past,” consulting a watch about the size 
of a marrow-fat pea. 

” Are you hungr}*-, mamma?” laughed Ida, sarcastically. 

‘‘ Mrs. Frankalmoign’s mechanism'is regulated chronometrically,” 
interposed Mr. Orphrey, who was one o4 the party. 

‘‘ 1 don’t know what that means,” replied Ida, demurely, fancying 
herself snubbed, ” but for myself 1 prefer this lovely moss to 
chicken and galantine and that sort of thing. One might do very 
well without food, of course so long as one had an occasional 
meringue or an ice, but life without mosses would be — a blank.” 

Aud forthwith she began to attack a sloping bank in front of her, 
which, lying beneath the undergrowth at the foot of the hill, and at 
the fringe of Flesset Wood, was carpeted with mosses of a tint ex- 
celling the richest emerald in the Green Vault of Dresden— an oc- 
cupation not only fascinating, but positively engrossing to sweet 
eighteen. 

Mr. Crphrey followed her in silence. He was, like most of his 
congeners of the Ritualist party, a sworn celibate, but, for all tnat, 
appreciative ot female and every other species of beauty. He had 
no thought of her otherwise tlian of an exquisite flower, whom to 
admire, as such, was no sin ; and further, as was perhaps unavoid- 
able in a nature so poetical as his, he. felt himself entirely in har« 


3^ tJKDEK WHICH JaKG? 

mony with her ideality. But he did not interrupt her, indeed hia 
forte was not small-talk; he only stood near and watched the 
mosses grow into a huge heap in the basket she carried on her arm. 
It was a joy to his rniiid to play cavalier to one so pure and simple, 
yet so highly refined, whereas my Lady IMarmyon was exacting and 
Mrs. Frankalmoign frivolous, according to his estimate, and so he 
gladly left them to themseh es, and their talk about the probabilities 
of luncheon. 

He was immersed in a strong reverie, and indeed only half con* 
scious of surrounding objects, when a sudden cry from Ida Frank- 
almoign’s lips, startling him out of dreamland, caused him to bound 
to her side. 

This was what had happened; 

Ida, ha\ing all but filled her basket with moss, had placed it on 
the bank; then she gathered a little heap, and seizing the basket 
with the quick fingers of girlhood, swung it over her arm, when, 
lo! to her horror, from between the mosses there emerged the head 
of a dark gray thing. _ 

It was an adder ! 

The reptile had crept up the basket from the bank, and inserted 
itself between the la3"ers of moss; then, when it felt the basket 
move, it instinctively hurried to escape, but perceiving its proximity 
lo human flesh, raised its head, the preliminary of the dart that; 
means, frequently, death. 

Too terrified to preserve her equilibrium, Ida, instead of trying to 
swing the basket off her arm, began to run, ]\lr. Orphrey follow- 
ing, and crying, “ Drop it! Drop the basket!” but appareixtly not 
having the nerve or presence of mind to help. 

At that critical instant there was a crash of the hazel boughs, and 
Plantagenet, whose eye had grasped the situation, seized the snake, 
drew it by main force from the basket, flung it to the earth and 
under his strong heel had crushed its poisonous head. The whole 
action, from first to last, did not occupy five seconds, and that 
would have been too long a span of time had not the reptile, before 
springing, essayed to drag itself free of the moss. 

With the words ” You have saved my life ” Ida fell prone in a 
dead faint, her savior towering above her proudly, as the women 
came and tended the beautiful girl. 

* * * * * * * 

That little episode had a moral effect. Ida was not the type of 
the girl to forget to express in warm terms the gratitude she felt, 
and the sympathetic flariie of her great and glorious e)^ seemed like 
the sun ray that melts the snow" It relaxed Piantagen'et’s tongue, 
and to his surprise and charm she didn’t, as of yore, repel his diffi- 
dent advances; on the contrary, quietly, and with a certain reserve, 
she met them halt-way. And thus two days before lire fortnight — 
the period of Mrs. Frankalmoign’s visit — was up, he plucked up 
courage, and in a tew manly words asked Ida to think of him as a 
suitor. That was all. He would not as yet speak of marriage lest, 
perchance, she might mistake gratitude tor love, and Planhigenet 
Marmyon was endowed by nature with too .strong a vein of com- 
mon-sense to wish to wed a wife who could not Vith her hand give 
him her undivided heart. 


UNDER WHICH KING? 33 

Her reply was simplicity itself. She said, “ 1 like you, and ad- 
mire your great courage and your manliness. I think, too, that 
mamma wishes it, and perhaps also your people. Hut — ” 

“ What is the bar, Ida?” faltered Plantagenet. 

” There is no bar— none; but 1 am placed in this difficult It is 
only a few days since Errol asked me something which — then — 1 
could not exactly refuse.” 

” Errol!” 

” Yes. He attracted me. I, perhaps, attracted him. Before he 
left he forced from me a promise. That 1 have canceled; and 1 
tell you this, 1 would die rather than marry him. 1 never vvish to 
set eyes upon him again. Still, you must see that 1 am awkwardly 
circumstanced.” 

” AYell,” replied Plantagenet, cheerily, ‘‘ I am young, so are you. 
1 am true as steel. With me, Ida, it is you or never. Will you 
come here at Christmas? — my father would arrange that with Mrs. 
Frankalmoign— then we shall see more of each other, and you w^ll 
be able to give the verdict on which so much depends.” 

“ Be it so,” she replied, glad to be extricated from the embarrass- 
ment of a position she felt to be equivocal ; lor her mind was not 
made up with regard to Plantagenet, and under such conditions 
time she believed to be an insurance against an irretrievably false 
step. 

That same evening at dinner, the fish having just been removed, 
in stalked, unexpected and unwelcome, Errol. 

” Well, my dear fellow,” observed his father, with a certain tinge 
of awkwardness in his manner, ” and what brings you' back home? 
Nothing happened to our' charming friend, Dr. Lembic, 1 hope?” 

” I’ll take some fish,” replied Errol, addressing the footman first 
and his sire second. “Oh, no, thanks, Lembic’s all right. 1 only 
came here for Flo. As you wouldn’t send her, I was simply obliged 
to come and fetch her.” 

“ Er — ah,” gurgled Sir Robert, while a dead silence fell upon the 
table. “ 1— er — ah — that is to say, we all — er— ah — expected that 
you would take a hint. It would be painful to us for the— er — ah — 
dog to be sacrificed in the way you propose. We have no objection 
to physiological investigation, Errol, far from it, but in the pursuit 
of science please favor us by sparing those animals whom we have — 
irrationally, no doubt — got to regard as friends.” 

Errol's darR countenance flushed crimson. “ Sir,” he rejoined, 
“ you forget. The dog is my property.” 

“ That may be, boy, but 1 say ‘ No!’ ” 

And,” added Plantagenet, “ 1 echo my father’s verdict.” 

“ What right have you to interfere?” This to his brother. 

“ Every right,” interposed the musical voice of Ida Frankalmoign. 
“ Anybody has a right to interfere between a dear dog, who has 
never done a human being any injury, and who has been your 
friend of long years, and the monster who would torture it, simply 
from a diabolical lust of cruelty.” 

“ Ida, Ida!” pleaded Mrs. Frankalmoign, “ really, you quite for- 
get yourself.” But mamma did not somehow look angry, in spite 
of her protest. 


34 UNDER WHICH KING? 

“ Enoiigli,” inteiTupted the baronet, with dignity. “You have 
my decision, Errol, and I’ll trouble you to change the subject.” 

Nevertheless, though parental authority quashed an incipient 
quarrel between the brothers for tlie nonce, it could not stop it alto- 
gether. Errol felt almost mad at Ida’s marked coolness and angry 
rebuke; Plantagenet, who had hitherto held his younger brother in 
contempt, recognized in him now a rival. The billiard-room, in 
consequence, was the scene of a fracas, w’^hich ended b}' Errol strik- 
ing his brother, who, in lieu of returning the blow, took him bodily 
by the scruff of the neck and pitched hi m out of the room. It was 
in the condition of a man utterly humiliated that Errol sought his 
mother’s boudoir, for he knew that he might reckon on her sym- 
pathy. He was emphatically her son. 

“ What is the matter?” she asked, in amazement. 

“ That blackguard of an elder brother of mine,” he gasped, “ has 
insulted and assaulted me,” Two lies in a breath. 

“ Dear me,” protested Lady Marmyon, “ that is very disgusting 
bbhavior of Planny. Surely he might rest content wdlh having won 
Ida.” 

“ Won Ida!” echoed Errol; “ does he imagine he’s won her?” 

“ He has won her— at least so Mm. Frankalmoign tells me, and 
she ought to be 'well informed.” 

“ It’s false!’' cried Errol, purpling. “1 know better. In fact, 
mother, the girl’s pledged to me.” 

“ Nonsense, boy, you are too young and too poor — absurd!” 

“ All right, mother, don’t believe it — only mark my words, she 
may not have me, but she’ll never have that huge mammoth of an 
animal, Planny. Look at his hands and feet. Look at his rolling 
gait, for all the world as though he had been at plow all his life! 
5\iugh! Ida’s not such a pig as to associate with that creature. 1 
don’t recognize him as my'brother. He’s not like me or you or 
father. In fact 1 don’t know wdio he is like, unless it’s some" prize- 
fighting cad.” 

“ You had better go to bed, Errol,” said his mother in reply. 

He took the maternal advice, and on his toilet table perceived a 
parcel. To rip asunder the paper was a second’s work. Tt con- 
tained his letters to Ida unopened. 


CHAPTER IIJ. 

CHTJUCn VERSUS PUB. 

The day following witnessed a general exodus at Marm^n 
Court. Mrs. Frankalmoign and Ida left for Tlomburg, Sir Robert’s 
diplomatic invitation for "Christmas, given at Plantagenet’s sugges- 
tion, having been graciously accepted. Errol returntjd to Alma 
Mater, but without poor old Flo, who licked his cruel hand lov- 
ingly, all innocent of the hideous doom he had intended for her. 
The baronet and his wife went off on a visit to some relations in 
Devonshire, and Plantagenet w^as left alone in his glory (o shoot, 
hunt, ride, and read or laze according to the humor of the moment, 
and to represent the family on the magisterial bench. It W'as in 


UNDER WHICH KING? 85 

consequence of the birds being away that CjTil Orphrey put into 
execution a lean revs of his that had ever been his wish, only he 
lacked the pluck to face the dire wrath of Sir Robert. In a word 
he announced a mission under the auspices of the famous Father 
L’lsle, Ritualist, Revivalist, and— tell it not in Gath, still less in 
Kent!— Christian Socialist. 

To appreciate the vicar’s motives it is necessary to comprehend 
his piosilion. A mild, gentle, eestlietic, and rather dreamy soul, he 
had with some hesitation closed with Lady Marmyon’s urgent re- 
quest that he would accept the living of Marmyon. He happened 
to be a poor man, but then he neither cared for nor w’anted money 
except for the Church, on which he could easily have lavished a 
fortune, and the poor with whom he was cordially in sympathy. 
On assuming office he began to do things in his own way. He was 
by no means a profound believer in the inspiration of Cranmer, that 
“ right pig ” whom Henry the polygamous, according to the royal 
and cultured phraseology, “got by the ear,” and wffio assisted his 
sovereign lord to commit adultery; neither did he quite perceive 
the logic, at this time of day, when every scholar know'S something 
of ecclesiastical history, and philology, of submitting his judgment to 
the crass sciolism of that servile mutilator of the Decalogue and of 
his successor in toadyism, Parker. But at Marmyon he failed to 
get a fair hearing. Sir Robert had never opened a book since he 
left the University without a degree. Piantageuet had been the bot- 
tom boy of his form at school, and after a very brief experiment of 
academ'ical life had abandoned the experiment as being quite over his 
head. Lady Marmyon, it is true, w^as his supporter; not, howmver, 
on the ground of conviction, but of dilettanteism, and Errol took 
his side, simply, however, to oppose his fatner and brother, for in 
sentiment he was a pupil of the Lembic School, i.e., a tierce Mate- 
rialist. 

But it the Court, which w'as externaly cultured, represented to the 
mind of Cyril Orphrey very much wffiat a wet blanket w’ould to a 
traveler in Greenland, the parish w^as, if possible, even more dis- 
heartening. He hoped to have found among the people some such 
quality as enthusiastic, Iwmn -singing, conventicle-loving Method- 
ism. On the contrary he met with nothing but the Laodicean in- 
difference of State-and-Church bigotiy, and the sort of prejudice 
wdiich, resting really on supreme ignorance, takes a moral stand on 
civil authority. Farmer Rodd, for instance, avowed that he loved 
his Church and held his Bible in reverence; but of the latter he 
knew, even superficially, but a fraction, and if you could have got 
at the true reason for his alleged love of Anglicanism you would 
have discovered it to have been based on the principle that it did not 
interfere with his whisky-and-water. As for the Igboring-men, 
they, poor fellows, were too heavily oppressed by this world to give 
mucli thought to the next; nevertheless, those among them who did 
indulge in brain exercise, notably Robert Hodge, opined that there 
must be something rotten somewhere, or else the ri<;h and comforta- 
ble would not Uample on those whose toil earned the very bread they 
ate. These people were about as accurately instructed in theology 
as Farmer Rodd or their supreme feudal lord himself, but they had 
read something somewhere about riches being a barrier to success in 


36 0NDEII WHICH KIKO? 

the next World, and something also about a cup of cold water, and 
lienee, perhaps, their stupid inability to put tnvo and two together 
aud indulge in an unctuous and contented optimism. 

Right]}’’ or wrongly, Mr. Orphrey was dissatished with the men- 
tal, moral, and spiritual status of the flock over which he was shep- 
herd; nevertheless, so long as Bir Robert was in residence — and he 
seldom, except in the height of the London season, was absent from 
his petty principality — there was no chance of stirring the mud. 
The baronet voted himself the earthly deity of every man, woman, 
and child on his estate, and for the vicar to start a mission with a 
Ritualist-Revivalist-Radical spouter would have seemed to him rank 
rebellion. A stronger man than Cyril Orphrey would have faced 
the lion in .his den; he, on the contrary, preferred to tight when the 
opposing general’s back was turned — a rather unheroic proceeding, 
perhaps, but well meant. 

It was Sunday morning, and the village having been placarded 
with small posters stating that an eight days’ mission would be con- 
ducted by the Rev. Father L’lsle, who would deliver his opening ad- 
dress on that occasion, the pretty village church was thronged, even 
Farmer Rodd’s curiosity attracting him. The preliminaries ’were 
reduced to a minimum, and then from the vestry, habited in a sim- 
ple surplice, but witli a beretta on his head, advanced a man of 
great stature and venerable mien. The pulpit stairs creaked under 
the weight of his heavy tread, aud as he confronted the villagers he 
looked colossal and commanding. Then he removed his beretta, 
and in a deep, musical, tell-tale bass voice, began: “1 have been 
asked to come here for a definite purpose. Your pastor tells me that 
you are drowsy, narcotized by overwork and pinching poverty and 
ignorance. You don’t care much what becomes of you to-day, and 
you certainly care less for the fate of the morrow. Is that so? Do 
any of you own that hitherto life has appeared to be utterly purpose- 
less— a kind of eiror for which you are not personally responsible, 
thounh some of you have perpetuated it by bringing children into the 
world? 1 think 1 read the answer ‘ Yes ’ in your faces. Well, my 
business to-day is to try and convince you that life is no error, but 
that the fault lies at the door of those ’vnAio make it so, and that as 
regards that great to-morrow, which we Churchmen call Eternity, it 
is so important that you mustn't lose a moment in providing for it.” 

To quote a tithe of Father L’lsle’s address, which, commencing 
with cold logic, warmed gradually to blood-heat, would be weari- 
some, since be had necessarily to travel over ground both trite and 
tedious. Suffice it that he traced the Church from its origin as a 
social or co-operative system for the benefit of all, whether styled 
clerics or laics, to the Middle Ages, when it was a clerical co-opera- 
tive insiitutionof vast magnitude, and one also recognizing its obliaa- 
tion to labor, and so on to the present day when it has retained tlie 
mcdioBval privileges as far as it could, but has repudiated its respon- 
sibilities, and instead of being the champion of the rights of labor, 
has joined hands with the rich in repressing the poor. It was when 
he had thus baldly and boldly delivered himself of sentiments w’hich 
caused Farmer Rodd to scratch his poll and cough angrily, tliat the 
preacher, in stentorian tones, cried, “Blessed are ye poor! Ay, 
blessed!” 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


37 


Then he paused. 

“ What!” he cried, “blessed? That surely is a bitter jest. Is it 
a blessing to work, liom sunrise to sunset, six-sevenths ot a man’s 
manhood at the rate of threepence an hour, and in old age to be in- 
carcerated in a workhouse? Is it a blessing to subsist on a diet of 
the commonest bacon and the coarsest cheese, with a fluid composed 
of brewer’s chemicals- for your sole luxury? Is it a blessing to be 
unable to do more for your children than to prevent them from 
starving? Is it a blessing to endure all this throughout the lone:, 
long years, and to be eye-witnesses of the splendor and comfort of 
otliers for whom all this manhood of ours slaves? Is it a blessing, 
think you, for the bee to see the hatnd of a man appropriate the 
honey, to amass which it and its fellows have been energizing cease- 
lessly throughout spring and summer? No. In the name of 
common-sense, no. The blessing of the poor is not present but 
prospective; but, I tell you this, if the old principle of the Church 
— a principle which I will term share and share alike — were re-enact- 
ed; or if, for that is too far oil, the clergy, as in the Middle Ages, 
made it their business, a positive point of honor, to see that age and 
feebleness and sickness did not suffer either in mind or in body, and 
forced — yes, forced, for the Church then was not the serf of an 
Atheistic State — the rich to deal justly, if not generously by the 
poor, then we should be nearer to the Kingdom of God, for all 
would be able to worship without any sense of inequality or injus- 
tice.” 

Of course the preacher did not stop here, albeit he had spoken for 
an hour. He was leading up to a peroration on the crucifix, which, 
life-size, hung from the chancel arch, in defiance it is to be feared 
of my Lord Penzance and his wire-pullers, the Church Association. 

“ Look there!” he whispered, yet so that his voice traveled to 
every angle of the church. “ Look at that figure in its intense 
agony, and remark, it you will, that human art, when it tries to 
represent the Passion, fails to portray that Pace, which was more 
marred than the face of any other man. Was He blessed on the 
cross? He was poor; He had not where to lay His head; and He 
was tormented so that your grievahces are as light afflictions com- 
pared with His. Can you term Him blessed? Yes.” 

That was all. 

Sermons in nine thousand nine hundred and ninety cases out of 
ten thousand miss their mark. They are not nature, and they are 
not art. This man’s was both. Hence it affected the audience, as 
Mr. Irving, or any really sublime artist, can affect an assemblage 
gathered hap-hazard. There were tears; better still, the feeling 
created was- one of enthusiasm. The poor fellows regarded Father 
L’lsle, at once, not only as an apostle, but as a man who could sym- 
pathize with their sore needs. Even Farmer Rodd, before he left 
the church, muttered that the “feller’s religion were werry con- 
wincing, but that he wished he weren’t such a darned Radical.” 
However, the best test of Father L’Isle’s magnetic influence was 
this— the whole parish turned into church at nine o’clock on Mon- 
day evening, and on each of the following evenings, while after 
every fresh appeal the vestry was extemporized into a confessional, 
so that one by one the majority of Mr. Orphrey’s flock were brought 


38 


UiTDER WHICH KIXG? 


into personal relations with the good father, and thus became 
stamped with the impress of his conviction. 

Among those who listened rapturously and appreciatively was 
Kobert Hodge. That yoang man, as has been said, was, on account 
of his intelligence and refinement, ix j)rotege ot IMr. Orphiey, and— 
oddly enough— perhaps, tor that very reason, coupled with his dis- 
like of his class and love of solitude, he had hitherto felt but little 
sympathy for the laborer. His e.xperience of the Mannyon Arms 
led him to view the poor fellow in rather a jaundiced ligut — to wit, 
as one who vpouUl sell his soul for a pint of sophisticated beer. 
Father L’isle, however, suggested to his mind new ideas as to the 
possibilities of labor; and the threepence an hour— his own remuner- 
ation — constituted rather a powerful argument in favor of ameliora- 
tion. In short, while others were fascinated b}’' the preacher’s 
enunciation of what was, in their ears, a new economy, but were 
moved especially toward religious emotion by his appeal to their con- 
science, it was the economical doctrine rathei than the religious 
which affected Robert most strongly. A mind like his was too inquir- 
ing, too speculatively inclined to be capable of rising to the exalted 
level of a grand religious enthusiasm. The young man was indeed, 
without knowing it, intuitively poet and metaphysician rather than 
religionist. Nevertheless, he was a good hearer, and of the conirre- 
gation none could have repeated so perfectly the /psmtwa of the 
great orator; but it is equally true, while the bibulous and profane, 
tlie foolish’^nd the profligate, w'ere with bedimmed eyes crowding 
to the vestry door in order to profit by the advice of Father LTsle, 
and to seek the illumination of soul which he assured them might be 
obtained, Robert Hodge avoided tliis informal confessional or direct- 
ory, call it which you will, and after each service went home to 
think and sleep over his thoughts, of which he was autocrat. 

Mr. Orphrey remarked this. “Of all my paiish,” he said, “1 
imagined Robert Hodge to be the most devotional ly inclined. He 
has always affected 'the church, and if we boasted men’s voices 1 
should ask him to join the choir; indeed, 1 have thought of supple- 
menting the boys by his beautiful tenor, even without basses or 
altos. Yet, somehow, while others have been brougnt under the in- 
fluence of this great revival he has shown no sign of penitence. 
Perchance the cause may be found in his attachment tor Polly 
Williams. Father L’isle remarked, appositely, ‘ Lovers make poor 
catechumens,’ and so it is.’’ 

The worthy man was in error. He had never analyzed Robert’s 
mental composition critically, and perhaps, from his priestly point 
of view, he could not understand youth being both moral and ideal, 
yet devoid of religious sentiment. 

What is one man’s meat is another man’s poison. Father L’isle 
octave came to an end like other good things, and amid the wnirin 
thanks of the hearty poor of Mannyon parish he took his leave, hav- 
ing filled Mr. Orphrev’s halt empty church for him. The imme- 
diate effect of the mission was, however, not only to create a congre- 
gation, but to empty the Mannyon xVrms. The triumph of good 
always involves the defeat of evil; the supremacy of God the down- 
fall of the devil. 

Mrs. Martha Hodge and her cherry-cheeked daughter BeRnda had 


TODER WHICH KIHG? 39 

not been of the number of those submitted to the marvelous mag- 
netism of Father L'lsle. Both may have felt that there was a cer- 
tain inevitable antagonism between that priest’s preaching and the 
business whereby they made a living; but whether they felt that or 
not, one thing is certain, that when on that memorable Monday 
evening the bar of the I\larinyon Arms was virtually empty, they 
began to turn their tongues in a diabolical duet against Father L’lsle, 
Cyril Orphrey, and the Church ot England. “ Wliat right had that 
there sickly-looking piece of goods, Lady Marmyon, to bring that 
there Ilittleish feller Horpbrey into a respectable "parish? How did 
Sir Robert ex peel to get his rent for the Marmyon Arms it so be 
customers were driven away by all that Papish mummery?” 3Irs. 
Hodge, too, as evening after evening wore away with barely a glass 
sold, took to all sorts of meaningful mutterings and direful menaces 
against persons or things unknown, for toward evening her utterance 
had of late years got to be rather thick and incoherent, while her 
complexion became more florid, tor the nonce, as her voice grew 
more indistinct. Still, threats or no threats, matters did not improve. 
There is no Act of Parliament to compel agricultural laborers to buy 
malt or spirituous liquors against their will. Father LTsle had bat- 
tled with the demon of drink, as well as with sundry other demons, 
and had beaten it all along the line. Ergo, the angel of that demon 
had to sit perforce at an empty bar and grin and bear it, in hopes 
that eventually seven devils might take possession of the mortal 
tenement which had been so thoroughly purified by priestcraft. 

Of course, the world being constituted as it is, slowly and by degrees 
one after another displayed symptoms of returning to that wallow- 
ing in the mire which Mrs. Hodge considered to represent an earthly 
paradisd for working-men. Nevertheless the process took time, and 
in the interim the trade of the Marmyon Arms was not so much de- 
pressed as paralyzed, so much so "that one fine morning Martha 
Hodge put on her bonnet, with the cherry- colored ribbons— she had 
long since discarded widow’s weeds— and waddled up to the Court — 
she was very adipose in respect of tissue — to lodge a complaint with 
Master Plantagenet against her enemy, the parson. 

” Which it were, young sir,” she said, ” as 1 were your foster- 
mother, and many’s the kiss I’ve given jmur little body! You was 
a fine baby, you was, with the temper of a hangel, and I’ve watehed 
you grow up, sir, with as much pride as though I’d a bin your actual 
mother as bore you. That I have.” 

Plantagenet had just finished halt a spatched-cock fowl with 
mushroom sauce, an omelet, toast, mannalaile, coffee, and spiced 
beer— a frugal breakfast according to his modest notions— pd was 
endeavoring to quicken digestion by the artificial aid of a cigar that 
cost, by the pound, only teupence halfpenny. 

” Yes,” he replied, smiling sleepily and puffing a volcanic volume 
of smoke from that crater, his mouth, ” I know you’re my deputy- 
mamma, Mrs. Hodge, and for every reason 1 should like to serve 
you, but what can 1 do? 1 didn’t patronize the church and sit under 
this precious Father L’lsle— in fact, when my people are not at home 
1 generally iro for a walk instead of to church. , It’s a more whole- 
some proceeding from m}’’ point of view. But 1 don’t see how 1 can 
interfere. The vicar brings a soit of apostle here, and the man per- 


40 UNDER WHICH KING? 

suades the people that drink is the devil. "Well, 1 suppose he’s not 
far out.” 

“ You oughtn’t to say so,” rejoined Mrs. Hodge, pertly. “You 
take your glass like a man, you does.” 

” Yes. But it don’t pick my pockets, or starve my children, or 
damage my liver. Still, 1 understand, my good woman, what 
you’re driving at. The vicar’s emptied your till, and that means 
loss, if not smash, to you and yours.” 

Mrs. Hodge beamed upon his manly form quite seraphically. In 
fact she bothered him, though he was much the reverse of nervous, 
by her steady and intrusive, if admiring stare. ” Yes,” was all her 
vacuous reply. She was evidently thinking of something else beyond 
the subject of their conversation. 

” Well,” he said, sharply, ” then all 1 can do is to tell my father’s 
agent to drop your rent for the half year; take off ten per cent, say, 
if that will do'? ’ 

Martha Hodge pursed up her mouth negatively. 

“ Twenty per cent., then? Why, dash it, you don’t want to beg 
off your rent altogether, do you?” 

‘‘ I’m not a-beggin’,” she retorted. ” 1 wouldn’t demean myself 
so far as that, Master Blantagenet,” the color rising to her cheeks. 
” Perhaps, if 1 choose to speak plainer 1 might be heard fuither, 
but that’s neither here nor there. 1 don’t go to say as a trifle off the 
rent might not come in handy, but that ain’t it. 1 wants that there 
Horphrey turned out.” 

” Faugh I Ridiculous! Sir Robert couldn’t do it if he would, 
and wouldn’t if he could. He’s not Mr. Oiphrey’s master.” 

” No?” she replied, dubiously. ” Then 1 read, 1 did, in my news- 
paper wrong. 1 read, 1 did, of a Church Persecution Association — 
or some’at of the sort — as turns out them Rittelish chaps. Why 
don’t Sir Robert put that lot on to Horphrey?” 

” Why? Because he’s not a blackguard. No, no, Mrs. Hodge. 
There’s nothing in that game, but we won’t see you go to the wall. 
If the public-house is empty, Sir Robert will forego his rent. That 
I promise you, on my honor. Come, won’t that satisfy you?” 

” But there’s the brewers. And I’s got to live, and keep my 
daughter, and pay rates and all that.” 

” Ah, yes, of course.” 

‘‘ You’ll stand my friend, won’t ’ee, sir?”‘>pleaded Martha, a tear 
in her eye. ” Remember, young man, 1 be your mother, your foster- 
mother that is, and you won’t go to let me be sold up, ” 

” 1 hope not,” smiled Plantagenet, flinging away his cigar-end. 
” And now, ta-ta, Mrs. Hodge, I’m off, to Canterbury by the next 
train. So, there! I won’t forget you — never fear!” 

As Martha Hodge waddled bacK home through that grand avenue 
of witch-elms, the tears tell like rain from her eyes. ” He don’t care 
for me — and 1 that were to him all that woman could be! To hear 
him talk in that grand way, it w(;re more than human natur’ could 
abear. Well, John Hodge, may be you was right after all, and I’d 
better have gone to ’Meriky than out a nussin’.” ' 

So these tears were not tears of sorrow, but of pique! 


UKDER WHICH KING? 


41 


CHAPTEK IV. 

THE GHEEN EYE. 

An autumn in the sweet valleys of sunny Kent is one long 
romance. The great chalk hills defend the shire both from the 
demoniac east and the biting north wind, and the hop culture which 
brings grist to the farmer’s pecuniary mill, and has made the name 
of Kentish yeomen proud in the annals of England, necessitates a 
large growth of underwood, for hops require poles, and poles have 
to be grown and renewed. It is the underwoods which render the 
shire so supremely gorgeous. The underwoods are the glory of a 
land that teems with natural beauties, aland of sunshine, sweetness, 
and smiles. 

So thought Robert Hodge as he toiled away on the crest of the 
chalk hills, with a superb view wending away to all points of the 
compass, and around him clusters of oak, ash, beech, and other 
poles. They had temporarily cleared a patch ot ten or twelve acres, 
leaving the stumps of the timber to cast forth fresh shoots and then 
yield another crop of hop-poles some seven or eight yeflrs hence. His 
business was to sharpen the points of the poles, so as to render them 
easj^ to “ set,” as the term is. It is rough carpentering work, very 
enjoyable with a pleasant sun overhead and a soft southern breeze to 
fan the face. 

‘‘ What be ye thinkin’ about?” rang forth a^ jpcrry girl’s voice at 
his elbow, causing him to drop his ax and stark 

“You, Polly!” 

“ Likely indeed! More silly you, then ! You oughter to be thinkin’ 
of the hop-poles, you did.” And Polly Williams, with the Langtry 
eye and Langtry smile, gazed archly at her lover’s earnest hazel eyes. 

“ Well,” said he, coolly, “ p’raps 1 were; p’raps 1 weren’t. 1 
think of you a good bit, girl, a good bit, niore particularly at night- 
time. It’s the stars that turn a man’s head toward love, Polly, not 
the sun.” 

“ The stars!” she echoed. “ They turns a feller’s ’ed to sleep, 1 
expects, unless he’ve got the indigestion.” 

“ Hot mine,” he laughed, “ However, to be truthful, Pol, 1 was 
wondering just now what 1 should do with all this grand estate if 1 
,.were Robert Marmyon instead of Robert Hodge. That was my 
thought, Pol,” 

“ You’d give 1 the go-by,” quoth she, tentatively. 

“ Not me,” said he, indignantly. “ In tact, girl, if 1 say I’m glad 
to be as I am, ’tis because I’m your equal and you mine. No; I 
was thinking, Pol, whether, if 1 were lord here of all these lands 
and woods, whereon a colony, if I might put it so, might earn a 
living, I should stick to it all myself, or let others share it along 
with myself.” 

“ I’d share it— and glad!” tittered she, merrily. 

“ Ah, yes,” grandly. “ You pretty things don’t look beyond your- 
selves much. No harm, either. But men are different.” 

“Men are selfish enough,” retorted Polly; “but there! 1 didn’t 


42 UNDER WHICH KING? 

climb up t'bis yere bill to talk chatter. I’ve come Irom Mrs. Maze- 
brook, Robert. She wants ever such a lot of moss. My lady’s 
cornin’ home from Devmgshire, or somewhere, this very evenmg 
that is, and Mrs. Mazebrook, she says, says she, Polly, says she, do 
’ee, like a good girl, she says, get 1 that there moss out of the 
under 'ood. So 1 says, I’m agreeable, Misses Mazebrook, and she 
says, says she, your young uran, she sa)’'s, can easily put you in the 
way of getting a barrer load it you wnsh. Not as Mi’s. Mazebrook 
wants a barrer full, but she give me this big basket, and I’ve got to 
fill it, I have, with proper mosses, too. Robert. The sorts my lady 
asks tor always. Them as looks like seaweed.” 

“ That’s a job soon done,” replied Robert, and forthwith he groped 
in and around a pile ot logs that had Ireen felled a year ago,* and 
with incredible celerity filled the basket with moss, adding some 
exquisite terns, picked from the fringe of the uncut wood on the 
brow ot the hill. 

Then they sat down and prattled and kissed as lovers will— 7i07^^ 
sozi qui mat y yeme — till Master Phmbas, scandalized b}^ such very 
rococo proceedings, showed symptoins of deserting the improper 
land ot Kent for the more correct couilties of Surrey and Hants, a 
natural phenomenon whicli pietty Miss Polly took as a direct hint to 
depart betimes.* 

” There,” said Mie, ‘‘ 1 declare you’ve bin a messin of me all this 
arternoon, and never done no work at all! I calls it a cheatin’ of 
Farmer Rodd, 1 does, Robert.” 

‘‘ I won’t cheat hii^’ replied the young fellow, proudly. “ That’s 
not my way. An hour to-morrow morning will make yp, 

with a little elbow-grease, for an idle afternoon. ’Tain’t men as 
cheats, ’Tis masters. ’ ’ 

They were shading hands and about to part when Polly, with a 
bright, saucy smile, exclaimed, ” There, now! Just like my memory. 
’Tis as drippin’ as a sieve. Blest if I w’eren’t forgettin’. It’s Master 
Errol’s message.” 

‘‘ Master Errol,” glooming over; “ why, he’s at college or some- 
where, ain’t he?” 

” No, he bain’t, so there! He came home unexpected from Ox- 
ford College yesterday night, and Mrs. Mazebrook she tell me some- 
thing about a fellowship as he did ought to have got and haven’t. 
But ot course 1 don’t rightly understand they things; they isn’t in 
my w’ay.” 

Yes, Polly, but this message?” 

” Steady, Dobbin! Don’t ’ee put 1 in a flurry. Y’ou see it were 
this w^ay. Mrs. Mazebrook she sent for me, and as we were a talkin’ 
about one thing and the t’other — them moss in partickler -in come 
Master Errol arter a bit of wire — he were goin’ to do something to a 
big rat as John had cotched in the stables — and when he sees me he 
goes to chuck I under the chin. He! he!” 

” Confound his cheek,” gasped Robert, reddening to the very 
roots of his hair at this confession. 

” It were only his fun. Then Mrs. Mazebrook, she says, says she, 
‘ That won’t do, nohow, Master Errol,’ and— he! he! — I can’t help 
laughin’, Robert, you do look so solemu — well, he gives 1 a kiss and 
says, ‘ You is a pretty girl, you is,’ he says, says he.” 


43 


UNDER WHICH KING? 

“ I’ll pimcli his head for him,’' muttered Robert. 

“ No, no,” cried Polly. “ That j’^ou sha’n’t. 1 forbid it. What’s 
the ’arm of a bit of funV He don’t mean nothin’, not he, so don’t 
go to be jealous, dear. Besides, if he cared for me ever so, I don’t 
care for him.” 

” But the message?” repeated Robert, trying hard to smile, and 
succeeding only in distorting his physiognomy. 

” ’Well, I’m a-comin’ to it. You see, Mrs, Mazebrook she give me 
that basket, and she says, now, my giil, she says, you be oft and git 
them mosses for my lady, or else, says she, the day’ll be gone.” 

” Yes.” 

‘‘ Mosses!” says Master Errol. ” Where be you a-going for them? 
Says 1, to Flesset under’ood by Flesset’ood. Sii, 1 says, my young 
man’s at work there, 1 says. Oh, says he, he says, is he, then tell 
him I’ll give him five shillin’, he says, for a live weasel or stoat, he 
says. So there’s a chance for you, Robert!” 

” 1 don’t want his five shillings — not 1! Let him keep it.” 

‘‘You great, stupid, jealous silly!” 

” Besides, what does he want with a weasel or a stoat? He ain’t 
a school-boy — he’s a young man.” 

“ I don’t know. But 1 wouldn’t refuse his money if 1 was you, 
Robert. It’s easy earned,” dryly. 

” I don’t want money, Polly,” he replied, dreamily. ” If 1 did 
want it 1 should be behind the bar at the Marmyon Arms instead of 
here. No; if you think that you misjudge me.’*’ 

‘‘ But,” tittered she— his serious mood rather bored her—” girls 
like money; they like new things and all that. See!” 

” And 1 don’t give you presents, Polly?” 

“No, Robert, that’s not it. 1 don’t ask for presents, nor do 1 
wish for ’em. But — ” 

” You think I’d better collar what 1 can get in order to have some- 
thing in case you should want them? Is that it?” 

“Ah, yes! 'i'ou’re jealous— that’s what’s wrong with you, 
Robert. But come, dear, how late ’tis! Now, wish me good-by, 
and mind, you trust me!” solemnly. 

” As tar as 1 can see you,’’ laughed he, rather cynically. 

And so they parted; she to run down the steep chalk hill with her 
basket of moss, he to continue his routine of pole-sharpening and 
think df tier, of Errol, a^ of sundry social problems whetfcwith his 
pericranium was just then filled, for Father L’Isle had set him think- 
ing, and the more he thought the more democratic he became. 

* X-* * ** 

Polly took the quickest path through the underwood, and arrived 
at length nearly at the base of the liill. Here her path bore to the 
right, through Flesset Wood, beneath the gray ruins of Flesset Cas- 
tle, which venerable memorials of the feudal past were all but ob- 
scured by the quivering forest -trees. 

At an angle of the path she started, for there ns-d-vis right ariross 
her way lolled, smoking a cigar*, no less a person than Errol 
jMarmvon, 

” What an unconscionable time you’ve been!” he grumbled. 
” That young man of yours must be gifted with magnetic iutluencc. 
Who is*he?” 


44 UNDER WHICH KIND? 

“ Robert Hodge/’ replied she, timidly essaying to pass him. 

“ Oh, Robert Hodge,” seizing her'arm firmly. “ AVell, as you’ve 
given the best part ol three hours to that lucky tellow, you can 
spare me a few minutes, I hope?” 

‘‘ I’m late, sir,” she faltere^^, “ and Mrs. Mazebrook, she — ” 

“ Oh, bother Mazebrook, I’ll put that all right.” 

And he quietly passed his arm round her waist. Then the Lang- 
try eyes changed from their normal expression of dreamy, soft sweet- 
ness to a hard steel. There was grit in this laborer’s daughter. 

” 1 want to go back at once, Mr. Errol,” she said, “ and 1 don’t 
like being interfered with. Let me alone, please.” 

‘‘ Tnt,"tut!’' he replied, coolly. ‘‘ You’re very pretty, and you 
know it. It’s not my fault that you’ve made me love you — yes, 
love you at first sight. But 1 don’t care to offend you. I’ve been 
waiting here, like a fool, goodness knows how long. You told me, 
you know, you were going to Flesset, and 1 could not help taking the 
hint, btill, if you won’t spare me five minutes’ talk, good. That’s 
my ill-luck.” 

And releasing her, he smiled superbly. 

These tactics were just a little bit effective. She vished to escape, 
yet it seemed rather ungracious, after this fine gentleman had made 
her so very candid an avowal of his sentiments, to avail herself of 
the opportunity without returning his civility somehow, though the 
precise manner was far from easy. 

” Mr. Errol,” said she, ‘‘ you oughtn’t to talk so. It is no good 
for either of us and you know it is not.” 

His eyes wore a strange expression as he replied, ‘‘As you will, 
child. Yet, somehow, if it wasn’t for that swain of yours, Robert 
Hodge, 1 venture to guess you might favor me with a smile. Eh? 
Am 1 very vain?” 

There was a tone of quiet flattery about this that affected her in 
spite of herself. But she was equal to the occasion. 

‘‘ 1 don’t know, I’m sure,” she said. ‘‘ You’re a gentleman, sir, 
and there’s a long distance between us.” 

‘‘ 1 don’t make it,” he pleaded. 

‘‘ And if there wasn’t,” she added, with quiet dignity, ‘‘ there’s 
my Robert; so good-evening, sir. ” 

‘‘ Ho offense, Polly!” he yawned, languidly. 

The gin did not answer, but hurried away quickly, feeling all- 
overish and wretched. She had repulsed the man, so far so good, 
but ought she to have been firmer? . She did not quite know. Per- 
haps she ought. 

But there was an even graver problem to be decided. Ought she 
to tell Robeit what had happened? She was not quite sure about 
that. If only she could make certain that he would keep his temper 
she would out with it, for a secret burned her as it burns every 
daughter of Eve under the sun. But Robert had a temper. Robert’s 
disposiliou was jealous. Robert might take the law into his own 
bauds, and pound that elegant, masher-like form of Errol Marmyon 
to a jelly. No. That was not to be thought of. A/?’ams would 
do no good and might lead to their being separated, besides which 
— to be just— -Errol had in a measure atoned for his insolent famil- 
iarity by releasing her, and after all, girl -like, she did not quite relish 


4'5 


UNDER miicn KIND? 

the thought of punishing any man for the offense of admiring her 
'beauty oveimuch. Pretty women feed on admiration, and seldom 
quarrel with her pabulum, unless it is very indigestible or disagree- 
able indeed. 

Nevertheless, Polly Williams did not act with all the wisdom of 
the serpent, for although she refrained from confiding in llobert or 
her mother, she went tor a walk on the following Saturday evening 
with Belinda Hodge, who cultivated her acquaintance sedulously, 
being in truth not a little proud of association with a local Langtry 
whose presence was a sate draw of all the village swains. Now, 
when two girls, who are rather friends, go for a walk, the odds are 
that something will ooze out; and though in this instance the some- 
thing was small, and did not pour forth in a stream of confidence, 
still Belinda heard enough to give her a very clear idea of what had 
happened. An imperfect sketch can always be filled up by a clever 
artist, and the disjointed hints of Polly were easily dovetailed, col- 
ored, and shaded b}’’ Belinda’s imagination, so as to resemble fact. 

Further, Belinda, being a barmaid, felt herself overpowered by a 
string sense of sisterly duty. Barmaids notoriously are gifted with 
tender consciences, and Belinda was no exception to this rule. So 
she took the earliest opportunity of giving her dear brother Kobcrt, 
who reall}’ detested her, a broad hint, and when that rankled, yet 
another, and then a sort of straight tip evolved wholly from her own 
vivid imagination, by which she wrought the hot-blooded, poetical 
young lover to a state bordering on frenzy, and sent him at boiling 
heat to demand an explanation from the object of his adoration. 

Polly Williams gave it, or rather he extorted it from her by main 
moral force. She, however, would not utter till he had sworn by 
his great love for her — the most binding oath that she could have 
asked — that he would neither lay a finger on Errol nor open his lips 
to that very tortuous specimen of patrician refinement on this deli- 
cate subject. Withal, Polly knew that Bobert’s word was inviolable. 
He might hate like Mephistopheles, but if he pledged himself not to 
strike, his arm would be paralyzed. The young dreamer could not 
be petty— even in his jealousy. ^ 

And yet Miss Polly hardly realized the depth of a man’s anger or 
Ihe consequences that might ensue from it. Had she forecast the 
issue, she would have been more cautious about opening her he^rt 
ever so little to a tittle-tattling piece of vulgar finery litre Belinda 
Hodge. In her simple soul she thought, “ Enough. 1 love him. 
He knows it. He loves me. 1 know it too. We shall be married 
soon. With the primroses and violets he suggested. There is no 
cause for jealousy. ” 

But she did not realize that her llobert, up in that underwood on 
Flesset Hill ground his teeth in wrath, and cursed not onty^ Errol but 
all the house of Maimyon, the survival of the feudal system, and 
things in general, it was only about a week later, when a meeting 
of agricultural laborers was advertised to be held on the green of 
Marmyon village, opposite the Marmyon Arms, to denounce land- 
lords and clamor for equal political rights, that fair Polly began to 
comprehend the peril of jealousy; for to her horror and dismay it 
was announced in print that the meeting would be addressed by 


46 UKDER WHICH KIKG? 

Mr. Piobert Hodge, one of the farm- laborers on the estate of Sir Eob- 
ert Marmyon, 

This indeed was news enough to cause Polly Williams apprehen- 
sion, for thus Robert threw down the gantlet to Farmer Rodd, 
to his feudal superior, and to the entire social system under which 
they lived. It was rank rebellion, and would doubtless entail upon 
the rebel condign punishment, mayhap permanent ostracism. 


CHAPTER V. 

FAIR SPEECH ; FOUL PLAY. 

Sir Robert Marmyon returned home just in the nick of time to 
scent from afar the malodor of the Franchise meeting. The Court, 
it is true, was situated at a sufficiently remote distance from the 
village-green, the scene of that— to his well-balanced mind — hideous 
prof analion ot our sacred Constitution. It was separated not only 
by the park palings and the thick belt of environing timber, which 
eflectually shut out the vulgar high-road, but by the distance of a 
good half-mile of English soil; so that unless the political agitators 
chose to employ dynamite there was not much chance of the repose 
of th(f Court beina’ disturbed Nevertheless the autocratic baronet 
felt himself considerably aggrieved by a meeting of this character 
being held within the limits of his demesne, and he was particu- 
lar! 3 ^ annoj-ed to learn that this outbreak of the communistic spirit, 
as he euphemistically put it, followed so fast upon the heels of Fa- 
ther LTsle’s mission. The good man did not swear — he was too 
gentle for that— but he funced and fretted, raged and raved, till at 
last Lady Marmyon got fairly out of temper. 

“ Reall 3 ^ Robert,’' remarked her ladyship at dinner, “you take 
his affair absurdl}’’ to heart. Let the people talk it they want to. 
Is not liberty of speech said to be a safety-valve?” 

“ That depends very much,” he replied, “ upon the amount of 
caloric. 1 don’t object to a safety-valve. What 1 dread is lest these 
unprincipled agitators should create such a volume of heat as will 
cause an explosion. Besides which, apart from mietaphor, 1 know 
what it all means. It’s an evident detiance of me: 3 'es, Df me, Lady 
Mijj^iyon. They come here to excite my people against me, to 
preach local sedition, to disrupt the sacred bonds which bind society 
together and safeguard the rights of property. It is the motive uii- 
derl 3 'ing their acts which exasperates me; and I’m soriy to say 1 
can not acquit ]\lr. Orphrey of blame. He has paved the way for 
all this by bringing here that lunatic L’lsle, to till the people’s stupid 
heads with all sorts of strange ideas, and 1 tell you frankly, though 
the man’s a protege of 3 murs, 1 don’t thank him for it.” 

Lady Marmyon bit her lips in pique. “ Why import poor Mr. 
Orphrey into the business?” she pleaded. 

“You are right, mother,” interposed Plantagenet; “Martha 
Hodge came boring me only the other day about her public-house 
being empty, owing to L’lsle or Orphrey or some influence of the 
clerical kind, and now it's all t’other way. 1 came by the Marmymn 
Arms half an hour befoie the dinner-bell rang, and there was the 


UNDER WHICH KING? 47 

whole village swarming like bees round Madam Hodge’s bar. Rad- 
icalism, clearly, is a thirsty creed.” 

‘‘ Disgusting!” grunted Sir Robeit, sipping his excellent Beaune. 
“ 1 have long since given up all hope of the lower orders. Swine, 
my dear boy— swine by instinct and by habii! Thomas,” to the 
attendant flunkey, ” how often am 1 to tell you when you help ven- 
ison to allow everybody their fair share of fat? You’ve given me 
positively none.” And Sir Robert’s visage reddened witirindigna- 
tion at the wrong and robbery inflicted upon him by the too-neg- 
lectful Thomas in his capacity of carver. 

‘‘ 1 think,” observed PlantagiJnet, after the adipose tissue of the 
slaughtered buck had been piled upon Sir Robert’s platter by the 
obsequious Thomas, ‘‘ I’ll stroll down and hear wh^t these cads have 
got to say. Will you come, Errol?” 

” No, thank you. 1 should have great pleasure in vivisecting 
them if there was no law to the contrary, but I’ve no ambition 
that they should vivisect me.” 

‘‘ Y'ou’ll run a chance, Planny, of — er — ah — a shindy,” suggested 
Sir Robert, rather nervously. 

‘‘ Probably get your head broken, and then 1 shall have the bore 
of nursing you,” dryly remarked Lady Marmyon. 

‘‘ Or,” laughed Eriol, in a sardonic voice of mauDciise plaimnterie, 
‘‘perhaps get potted altogether, and that would be good business 
lor me. ” 

‘‘ Errol,” said Sir Robert, sternly, ‘‘ that is a speech which-^er — 
ah — rather grates; yes, grates on my ears. No cheese, thank you. 
For what we have received— -hum — hum.” 

Plantagenet Marmyon, with all his faults, could not be termed 
coward. As a matter of fact he w^as quite as much amused as angry 
at this demonstration on the village-green, and the notion of any- 
body daring to molest one of this thews and sinews he at once dis- 
missed as chimerical. So, lighting a cigar, he strolled leisurely down 
to the green, and uninvifed — perhaps unwelcome — mingled with 
the throng of some three hundred men gathered not onl}’- from 
Marmyon, but from all the surrounding villages. Business had 
already begun, and the wagon which served for a rostrum was oc- 
cupied by Mr. Hercules Fhiymar, of the Central Democratic Lever- 
age Union, an orator of the iron-mouthed sort. 

“Msn of Marm 3 mn,” he cried, ‘‘1 come among you to-day to 
urge you, one and "all, to play the man— to strike one decisive blow 
for your rights. And what do 1 find when 1 come here? The old, 
old story— a feudal landlord and a feudal parson. Rent and tithe — 
tithe and rent. The cream for the idlers and the skim-milk for tlie 
workers. You are poor, all of you. It don’t need for me to look 
into your thin faces to know that. And why so? Why, because, 
my lads, you’re content to let that vampire up at Marmyon Court 
suck your blood. That’s wdiy. I’ll say nothing about tbe lesser 
leech, the parson; I’m coming to him by and by. We’ll fly first, 
if you please, at the big game Y’ou fellows who work on that 
man’s estate up at that Court, then, or whatever you call the place, 
you get at the outside a pound a week,” 

A voice; ‘‘ Eighteen shillin’, sir, and two shillin’ oft for rent of 
cottage.” 


48 UNDER WHICH KING? 

“Thanks for the correction, my friend; that only augments the 
force of my argument. Your net income amounts to little over 
two shillings a "day. Now this grand gentleman, your landlord, 
without you would be simply beggared. He couldn’t do without 
you, and yet he cuts you down to that starvation figure. \ eiy good. 
That being so, 1 think he deserves at your hands whatever he may 
chance to get— ha! ha! And the time’s drawing nigh, my lads, 
when, instead of you’re being at his mercy, he’ll be at yours. At 
present you have no vote— no voice in the law’s which others make 
for you* and which you have to obey. Y’ou are going to be en- 
franchised; and if only you’ll all of you, from one end of the land 
to the other, combine, and return to Parliament proper mouth-pieces 
to speak and vote for you in accordance wdth your wall, 1 tell you 
this, you may be each one of you his own landlord. The solid vote 
will do that for you when yoii have got it; but you’ll have to vote 
solid, or those that rule over you will make a cat’s paw of you, as 
they have of the little tradesmen and mechanics in many of the 
boroughs. And not only shall you be your own landlords, my 
boys, but, please the pigs, we’ll sweep away the last rag of super- 
stition. That Church has been a clever contrivance to make you 
content with your miserable penury. ‘ Oh,’ says the parson, ‘ you 
chaps are badly off now, but just think how w’ell olf you’re all of 
you going to be t’other side of the grave.’ A pretty tale, indeed!” 

“ it might be a worse one,” here interposed a single dissentient 
voice. 

“ What!” shouted the speaker. “ Has superstition such a grip on 
some of you that it positively causes you to hug your chains? Come, 
come, my bully boys, don’t be fools. What am 1? I’ll tell you. 
I’m an atheist. That’s what 1 am. An atheist. 1 don’t believe a 
syllable of all the trash I’m told by people who want to make 
money out of my simple credulity. That ain’t good enough for 
Master Hercules Flayniar, of the Democratic Leverage Union. 
But I’ll take my Christian friend there, who has entered his protest 
against my denunciation, on his own ground. He believes, 1 sup- 
pose, as ho professes himself to be a believer — ” 

The same voice, “ Ay, ay.” 

“ A believer, 1 say, and therefore one who believes in the eternity 
of punishment. He must do so if he is honest, for it is written in 
the Book, and there’s no escaping it. If you take the Book, you 
must take it wdth all it contains, bitter with sweet, and sweet with 
bitter. Well, now, my very believing friend, if 1 thought with you 
and your parson, it I felt convinced of a certainly that most of these 
people with whom 1 associate — my pals, my mates, my fellow- 
countrymen — were going to endure torment that surpasses all imag- 
ination, not tor an hour, or a day, or a y^ear, but for centuries and 
ages and epochs, forever and ever and ever, do you suppose I’d sit 
down quietly in a cozy parsonage and eat my beef and mutton, and 
swill my port-wine? Damme, no. 1 couldn’t be so cold blooded. 
I’d cry till the blood gushed out of my mouth. I’d take my 
stand on London Bridge, and collar every man and woman passing 
by and implore them to save themselves. 1 could not sleep; 1 could 
not eat. 1 should have such a job in hand as 1 dare not neglect for 
a second; and 1 should preach and preach and preach till i dropped. 


UNDER WHICH KING? 49 

or/’ lie added, changing bis earnest manner to a sardonic smile, “ till 
some kind friend shut me up in an asylum as a raging lunatic.” 

This anti-climax produced a general titter, in which the speaker 
himself joined. Then he proceeded : 

” Well, now, to ascend to common-sense, my friends, what’s the 
conclusion you and 1 have to draw from this? Here’s a doctrine 
that’s calculated to make the dullest imagination shiver with horror. 
It’s the most horrible conception that ever entered into the mind 
of man. It eclipses all the horrors that have been enacted on this 
planet since it came into being. A.nd yet the teachers of that doc- 
trine take it very easy, as if, after all, it didn’t much matter. Now, 
men of Marymon, what say you? Don’t you agree with me that 
these teachers, these black dragoons in the pay of the State, don’t 
believe, can’t believe what they are paid to teach? If they did be- 
lieve, would they sit still in their jolly snug chimney-corners, or 
content themselves with prosing for a half hour once a week? Not 
they. And so, 1 say, let’s make a clean sweep of them, along with 
the landlords and royalties and dukes, and all the shams that have 
been devised to repress the people. To do this you must first get 
your vote, and then use it. You will get it, for other people have 
labored to secure it for you; and if you don’t use it when you have 
got it more fool you. 1 call on your friend and neighbor, Mr. 
Robert Hodge, laboring-man, to address the meeting.” 

All this while Plantagenet Marmyon had been standing amid the 
crowd, the observed of all observers, but perfectly impassive, at 
times smiling at Mr. Flaymar’s impassioned periods, at times in- 
dulging in a slight grimace expressive of contempt. Being a head 
and sffoulders above the mass of working-men around him, he was 
conscious of exercizing rather a paralyzing influence on the meet- 
ing. He knew most of the men by sight, not a few to speak to, and 
those whom he did not know fancied that he had his eye on them. 
Consequently, Mr. Flaymar was greeted with much less cheering 
than he had anticipated, and, indeed, his diatribe on the Church 
fell absolutely flat. No sooner, however, had Robert Hodge 
mounted the wagon in compliance with the invitation addressed to 
him than a storm of applause greeted him. The honest fellows 
considered it no sin to cheer to the echo one of themselves ; and per- 
haps they were not a little reassured by the genial smile that over- 
spread Plantagenet’s broad, honest countenance as .in the deep- 
chested voice of an athlete he vociferated, “ Bravo, Hodge.” 

Robert Hodge faced his audience with calm self-confidence, per- 
haps with a sort of conscious superiority. His voice sounded sin- 
gularly harmonious and tuneful after the rather rancorous tones of 
the professional agitator, the more so, perhaps, because he spoke 
quickly and easily. 

” Friends and fellow-laborers,” he said, ” 1 interpret your senti- 
ments when 1 thank the gentleman who has just addressed us for 
his eloquence and the zeal he has shown for our cause. For all 
that, 1 don’t quite agree with much that he has urged— his entire 
programme, if 1 may so. 1 think, for instance, that he has been a 
trifle rough on the parson, who to my certain knowledge ain’t much 
of a man for beef or mutton; and being a teetotaler, can’t be rightly 
accused of a love of liquor; indeed, if you come to that, other people 


50 


UNDER WHICH RING? 


like their liquor as well as parsons, and some of them like it a little 
too much. But when tlie gentleman spoke against landlords, I lien 
he and 1 were more at one. If 1 were Che owner of these broa.d 
hinds that go to form the Marmyon estate, 1 should be ashamed to 
see men and women toiling from year’s end to year’s end tor in}" 
individual benefit, and 1 should say to them, ' My brethren, the age 
of seltishness has lasted long enough. The time has come for me to 
do an act of justice.’ You shall share the laml, and 1 will take my 
portion as one of you.’ That would be true nobility. That, 1 re- 
peat, would be what 1 should do for the sake of conscience, of 
justice, and humanity, were 1 the possessor of that splendid heritage 
of Marmyon.” 
g “ Oh no, you wouldn’t,” 

All eyes turned toward him who had given this flat contradiction 
to Robert Hodge. Most of them knew the voice. It was that of 
Plontagenet Marmyon. 

A dead silence. 

“It,” said Hercules Flaymar, suddenly rising to his legs, “the 
individual who has just interrupted the speake^ wishes to address 
us he shall have a fair hearing. We did not anticipate the honor of 
so very aristocratic, so very august, so very superlative a presence to 
grace our humble gathering, but — ” 

Mr. Hercules, however, had rather misjudged his man when he 
gave vent to this species of satire. Plantagenet Marmyon could not 
string together a dozen platitudes on any given theme— that every- 
body knew — but he could silence insolence in his own peculiar way, 
n,nd he promptly proceeded to do so. 

Before the orator of the Democratic Leverage Union could realize 
his position, he found himself suddenly collared by a giant arm, 
pushed backward through the crowd, which seemed afraid to inter- 
fere, and then, ere he could escape, he was twirled to the right- 
about, and a heavy boot kicked his devoted person over and over 
again as though he had been a football. This high-handed action, 
however, only succeeded owing to its suddenness; inUeed, as soon 
as the men began to comprehend that their chief spokesman was 
being severely punished they made for Plantagenet, who after the 
first blow left Flaymar to moan on the tuif, while he stood on the 
defensive, dealing knock-down blows right and left, as with a pole- 
ax, to his numerous assailants. 

Quantity, however, in matters martial sometimes, as at Thermop- 
ylae, though not at Rorke’s Drift, overpowers quality. There could 
be no question about Plantagenet’s capacity for bruising. He was 
in every sense a fighting-man, but he could not tackle three or four 
dozen stalwart young laborers, for all his agility and strength. In 
fact, Robert Hodge, his inferior physically in every particular, but 
his suiXTior in brains, hung about him till the moment arrived 
when he was engaged with four at once. Then he cleverly dodged 
behind the big man and pinioned him, while those in front ham- 
mered him mercilessly. It was not fair play; it was not wmrthy 
of one who had just delivered himself of such large humanitarian 
sentiments. It was in truth the outcome of a spirit of hate and re- 
venge that had been engendered in the young man’s breast owing 
to Urrol’s interference with Polly— a spirit that caused him to in- 


UOTEH WHICH IvII?-G? 51 

dulge his spleen indiscriminately, and to vent his direful vengeance 
on Plantagenet, simply because he bore the name ot Marmyon, 

At another time he would have been the first to cry shame, for in 
truth the spectacle tvas pitiful. There writhed the huge, brave 
fellow, unable to shake off Robert, who clung to his back like a 
cheetah, while the savages around dealt blows that laid bare his 
cheek and caused his teeth to rattle and his brain to reel. The 
Nemesis was cruel. 

What would have happened to the heir of the ancient inheritance 
of Marmyon it would be impossible to predict. The Philistines 
were truly upon Samson. Fortunately, however, the noise and shrieks 
of a few women, who had come as spectators rather than listeners, 
arttracted the attention of Inspector Granden and his three con- 
stables, who were concealed in the back parlor of the IVlarmyon 
Arms, in case their presence should be desirable, and this small 
force ot four resolute men, armed both with truncheons and au- 
thority, soon effected a diversion. Plantagenet’s assailants disap- 
peared, and Robert Hodge, springing agilely from his back, saw the 
big fellow stagger, totter, and fall prone at the inspector’s feet. He 
was stunned, fearfully gashed, and his arm was broken above the 
elbow. 

They carried him up to the Court, sent off a special messenger 
for the local doctor, poured brandy down his throat, and laid him 
on the sofa in terrible pain, and rather stupefied, yet,- strange to say, 
by no means, as might have been expeced, in a blind raee. 

“ There!” fumed Sir Robert, furiously. “There is a specimen 
of your lovely lower orders. But, ha! ha! They shall smart lor it. 
I’ll turn ever}’- man jack out. There shall be a general clearance of 
every laborer on the Marmyon estate. Ha! ha! I’ll make them re- 
pent! And as for the wretches who have all but assassinated poor 
Planny, I’ll — ” 

“ Father,” murmured gigantic Plantagenet, “you’ll do nothing 
of the kind. 1 was the aggressor. 1 kicked a London cad for liis 
detestable impudence, and that began the row. 1 tell you, father, 
1 owe a grudge to nobody except to the villain — whoever he was— 
who came behind and pinioned my arms. If 1 could find that fel- 
low out, I’d— yes, by George — I’d be even with him.” 

“ Tut, tut, boy, don’t talk to me,” continued Sir Robert, “ What 
an awful sight you are, Planny! Egad, if you only saw yourself in 
the looking-glass you’d appreciate my feelings. You’re maiked for 
life by that vile canaille. Never mind, ha! ha! Never mind! We 
shall see— we shall see!” 

“ All right,” rejoined Plantagenet, testily; “ but if 1 don’t mind, 
why should you? 1 swear there’s only one man to blame — only one 
who ought to be trounced.” 

“ And he,” chimed in Errol, who had come to smirk at Planny’s 
suffering, “ is, so I’m told, Robert Hodge.” 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE PLOT AGAINST PLANNY. 

The next day— and no wonder, after the alcohol they had ad- 
ministered— Plantagenet Marmyon was delirious. His arm was set 


52 UNDER WHICH KING? 

caretully and his face sewn up; but he could not sleep, and the re- 
sult was high fever. Ilis father wanted to telegraph for a London 
physician, but the local doctor protested that this was quite un- 
necessary, that there was no danger, and that the expense was quite 
useless. Sir Robert put the good man’s asseveration down to the 
score of professional jealousy, which mental accusation was alike 
ungenerous and unfair, but he gave way. 

To his motner’s intense surprise, Errol evinced the liveliest in- 
terest in Plantagenet. His concern for that young combatant’s 
calamities was, if not sincere, remarkably well enacted; and when 
at last he insisted on writing for Dr. Lembic from Oxford, Lady 
Marmyon expatiated loudly upon the beautiful disposition of her 
second son, which could bury animosities and display so much of 
heartfelt sympathy all in a moment. 

Errol too, not only, to all appearances, exhibited a genuine anxiety 
on his ‘brother’s account, but also did his utmost to egg his splenetic 
sire on to vengeance. He had gathered from the remarks of one of 
Inspector Granden’s policemen that Robert Hodge was the caum 
causans of Rlantagenet’s terrible pounding, and that but for Robert’s 
vendetta his big brother would have been able, in all likelihood, to 
hold his own, or at all events would have fought his way free. Now 
Errol had no particular love tor Robert Hodge. In his own sort of 
wicked, willful way he was half inlove with pretty Polly Williams, and 
he knew well enough that in that quarter Robert barred his chances. 
Accordingly, he contrived to focus his father’s wrath on Robert, 
with the result that Farmer Rodd received a missive requiring his 
instant dismissal,, and Widow Gipps another to assure her that, if 
she did not at once eject from her domicile this ofitender against the 
dignity of the House of Marmyon, she herself would be relegated 
to the workhouse finally and irretrievably. Sir Robert, moreover, 
inwardly registered a vow to eject Martha Hodge from her tenancy 
of the Marmyon Arms; but he deemed it advisable to hold his hand, 
lest he shourd incur the suspicion of executing vengeance indiscrim- 
inately and inequitably on the unoffending, in the" old Medo-Persic 
style. 

Robert was not surprised when Mr. Rodd, with a long face, sent 
for him and told him flatly that he had quarreled with his bread- 
and-butter, and must go; “for,” added the worthy farmer, “you 
can’t expect 1 to split with my landlord all about a chap like you. 
’Tain’t loikely, Robert!” 

Robert expected nothing of the kind, and said so. What he did 
anticipate was a warrant to appear before the magistrales, but this 
did not come. He perceived, however, from the mandate of VYidow 
Gipps, that he was ostracized forever from Marmyon, and it was in 
the highest spirit ot antagonism that he replied to it by taking up 
his quarters once more at the Marmyon Arms. He thought and 
talked of going to America— the laborers’ universal alternative— but 
he would not go without Polly; and that estimable young woman 
was not only rather nettled with him for having incurred the heavy 
displeasure of the Court, but also avowed herself decidedly averse 
to the pleasure of sea-sickness and the experiment ot foreign parts. 
Hence he adopted, against his will, the role of loafer, and waited 
for the unforeseen. 


UKDER WHICH KIHG? 63 

Mrs. Hodge was by no means pleased to have him back, and 
would have denied him shelter but for Belinda, who somehow cher- 
ished a sort of romantic fancy for him. Miss Belinda, moreover, 
was of the two rather the more omnipotent, being of an age when 
young females with a line, growing taste for spirituous liquors 
usually begin to assert themselves; whereas Martha Hodge had 
grown far too obese to quarrel, except under extreme provocation. 
Hence Robert lodged himself beneath the roof of the Marmyon 
Arms, and Errol badgered his father to regard this as a cams belli 
and turn out Mrs. Hodge. Forty-eight hours, however, cooled Sir 
Robert, and he recollected even in his wrath that he owed something 
to the landlady of the Marmyon Arms, In short, he would not in- 
terfere, so his dutiful and allectionate son Errol changed his tactics. 

He carefully watched his opportunity, and by occasionally si roll- 
ing through the village, at last contrived to run against Folly Will- 
iams — alone. This was what he wanted, and he was not the sort 
of gentleman to be foiled if he had made up his mind for mischief. 

“ Polly,” he said, eagerly, ” don’t take huft, there’s a good soul, 
but 1 must say one word to you.” 

His tone was so decidedly unlover-like that the girl looked him 
straight in the eyes and paused involuntarily. 

“ It’s only this. Mj'^ brother Flautagenet owes your sweetheart 
Robert a tremendous grudge. You mayn’t know, but 1 tell you it’s 
the truth; and if you ask the men they will corroborate what 1 say, 
that the severe punishment Planny — my brother, that is to say — has 
received — and it’s bad enough to render his life in danger — was all 
owing to Master Robert Hodge. He held him while the others hit 
him.” 

“I’m sure,” gasped Folly, indignantly, “he never could have 
done such a thing. He’s no coward.” 

“Ask others. Don’t ask me. What 1 tell you is the fact, and 
I’m not saying a word against Robert. 1 don’t love my brother 
enough for that! Indeed, I simply wish you to warn him, your 
sweetheart, that he had best be out of the way when Planny’s 
about again, or, by Heaven, there’ll be mischief. Planny will kill 
him, or, at all events, smash him to atoms!” 

“ Is that what you want to say, Mr. Errol?” 

“ That’s it, and that’s all. Good-day, Polly, and luck.” 

Polly remained rooted to the spot a long minute. She had heard 
what she did not relish, and hesitated how to act. 

Her reverie was interrupted suddenly by no less a person than 
Miss Belinda, with the normal exclamation of young women with 
more tongue than brains, “ Well, 1 never!” 

Polly blushed, bit her lip, and looked silly. 

Then Belinda laughed, tor she had caught sight of the retreating 
form of Errol Iilarmyon, and when Polly began chattering about 
Widow Gipp’s rheumatics she laughed even louder; and aflerwarrl, 
with the amiable design of teasing brother Robert, she bade that en- 
amored swain have a care, or he would be cut out by Master Errol. 

“ What do you mean?” asked Robert, loftily. 

“Nothing much; except that when two young people meet and 
stop to talk—” this with an air of profound mystery. 

“ Did they?” 


54 UNDER WHICH KING? 

“ 1 see them with my very eyes.” 

Robert said nothing, but he registered a vow, then and there, not 
to go to America without Polly. He had pondered over the wisdom 
ol securing employment in the States, and then sending tor her; but 
this project now vanished into thin air. Indeed, he tiecided on no 
account to leave Marmyon unless under sheer compulsion, and even 
then not to go tar afield. 

The morrow changed the situation slightly, for, oddly enough, 
Errol called on Mrs. Hodge in the character ot a candid friend, to 
warn her that by harboring Robert, who was justly an object ot 
aversion to the Court, she was running a grave risk. He begged 
her, careful diplomatist as he was, on no account to mention him, 
but to use her own discretion and act propvio motu. 

Martha Hodge opened her eyes wide, thanked her informant, and 
adopted his advice not only to the letter, but far beyond it, in the 
truest spirit of selfishness. 

“ Look’ee ’ere Roberk” said she. ” ’Tis about time we two ar- 
rived at a h’understandin’. You’ve behaved downright bad to me. 
No, don’t go to contradick, young man, lor 1 won’t liear you. I3ad 
it is as you have behaved, and now you’re a-tryin’ to ruin me. 1. 
won’t stand it, and if there ain’t no law to perfect a widder I’ll 
make one; so there!’ 

“ AV hat’s up?” inquired Robert ‘'You did not object to my 
coming back just for the time being, did you?” 

“Because 1 didn’t rightly understand the business. Because 1 
didn’t see that you’d have done that as have made you the powerflest 
enemies. But no more ’umbug for me. If you stay in this ’ouse 
there’ll be a change ot license. Now!” 

“Is that so?” asked Robert, simply. 

“ AVith Master Plantagenet almost a-d 3 dng all along of your 
wickedness, 1 wonder how you can have the face to ask such a ques- 
tion, Robert!” 

Robert pondered. Ihen he put on his hat, lit a pipe, and de- 
parted w ithout another word. His mother’s logic was so far con- 
clusive that it convinced him. 

******* 

The day that Robert quitted the Marmyon Arms Hr. Lembic ar- 
rived from Oxford. Sir Robert welcomed him effusivelv; for al- 
though Plantagenet's delirium was over, he w'as still very ill indeed 
and the baronet could not bring himself to confide in the local prac- 
titioner, albeit that humble but by no means unskillful disciple of 
Esculapius had done all that w'as possible for the patient. 

Hr. Lembic, of course, came and examined Plantagenet. put him 
to some quite superfluous pain, and as he gazed upon'his recumbent 
form, unconsciously copied the mental attitude of the butcher when 
examining a prize pig; in a word, he thought that the big man 
would cut up beautifully, if only he could get his operating-knife 
into him. ^ 

Next morning, to kill time before luncheon, and to insure an ap- 
petite tor that repast, Errol took Hr. Lembic tor a long walk rouiid 
tne woods. They were cronies rather than friends^ Lembic, the elder 
by some j^ears, affecting to patronize Errol, and Errol quietly letting 
the doctor understand that his social position was vastly superior to 


UNDER WHICH KING? 55 

that of an Oxford don. Nevertheless, in spite of the slight mutual 
jealousy, the pair fraternized. Botli relished cruelty, aiid were en* 
dowetl with that extra lust which impelled them to enjoy their bent 
to the utmost. Both were innately deceitful and intensely fond of 
money — a characteristic by no means inconsistent with that sanguin- 
ary spirit which takes a morbid delight in inflicting and witnessing 
agony. Lastly, both were at heart devil- worshipers, idolaters of 
wuckedness; albeit, in regard of morality, Dr. Lembic had always 
preserved his reputation. He was, indeed, rather a philosopher and 
a student than a sensualist, and his sublirnest pleasure was the low 
moan of a gagged dog as the knife first laid bare its quivering flesh. 
He cherished an ambition, however, of a yet keener gratification, 
when lie should be able — he knew not how — to dissect little by little, 
and without antesthetics, some member of the human species. A 
disciple of the pious St. Dominic, could not have built a more dia- 
bolical castle in the air. It was worthy of the inventor of the 
“ Scavenger’s Daughter.” 

TL'he amiable pair talked of their favorite topic as they roamed 
through the lovely woods, insensible entirely to the divine fascina- 
tion of nature, art, and sweetness. For them the note of the thrush 
meant nothing, and the bird itself was only a living thing that might 
be tortured. Their materialism had rendered them oblivious to the 
beauties of matter, and thej’’ cared for nothing but analysis. To 
pull to pieces, to wreck, to destroy— that was tlieir mission, and 
next to mercy they ridiculed belief as the greatest foil}'’ of which 
the human m'ind is capable. They were, in truth, a brace oi cult- 
ured monslers. 

‘‘ The crass indifference to science of most English people, and 
particularly of those who call themselves educated, strikes me with 
amazement and disgust,” began Dr. Lembic. “We are followed, 
checked, hampered at every turn, not only by Acts of Parliament, 
but by the inert force of public opinion and the irrelevant interfer- 
ence of the press. AVhat is the result? We make little or no ad- 
vance. Of course, in the hospitals, we have virtually carte-blanche, 
and we use it to the utmost of our ability, but here or elsewhere we 
are bound by the cords of prejudice. For instance, a man is 
brought in, some one of the.se tough laboring-men that make excel- 
lent subjects for experiments. Well, we’ve got him there, and, it 
it wasn’t for a set of nursing Sisters and people- who are half- 
hearted, we might use him as you and 1 use a dog. Instead of that 
we sre perforce compelled to confine our experiments to the part 
affected, whatever it may be, and to effect a perfectly unnecessary 
cure, when we might add to our stock of positive knowledge by 
sacrificing the fellow’s worthless life. It’s simply detestable.” 

“ But still,” urged Errol, “ you can, 1 imagine, experiment pretty 
freely, and, after all, you have lots of subjects— fresh re]a3^s, and 
without anything to pay, don’t you know.” 

Dr. Lembic laughed sardonically. “ Yes,” said he, “ there’s 
nothing to p^y, and of course when a case is entered as hopeless we 
have a certain latitude allowed us. But personally, 1 don’t care for 
moribund subjects. Give me a healthy subject with an acute sense 
of pain!” 

“ But,” continued Errol, “ the profession, or rather, 1 should say 

" • • 0 


56 UKDER WHICH KIHG? 

the physiologists, are not confined to the hospitals. They have their 
private patients.” 

“Yes, my dear sir, but private patients presumably pay, and it 
•will never do to cause them a second’s suffering. A man -would lose 
his patients en bloc if it was so much as whispered that he leirarded 
them as subjects. No, 1 fear that we are still a long way off from 
that halcyon period when the human subject will be as easily 
obtainable for experiment as the dog is now. But perhaps, as re- 
ligious superstition dies out by degrees, and science is more largely 
appreciated, we may be able to induce the IjCgislature to hand over 
to us physiologists for use murderers under sentence of death. There 
is no slushy sentimentality in favor of such offenders as Rush or 
Palmer or Pearce— iri fact, societ}’’ would rather gloat over a special 
report of their piled-up agonies— ha! ha!” 

“ It would be magnificent fun,” remarked Errol; adding, “By 
dove, how warm the sun is! Suppose we sit down for a few min- 
utes. Let me offer you a cigar. These are Bacon’s best.” 

They had just reached the side of one of those thatched sort of 
shanties used in the Kentish woods by charcoal burners ; and as a 
log lay against it, and the side of the shanty afforded a sort of back, 
they lolled at their ease, discussing Errol’s very perfect cigars — an 
Oxford brand of a decidedly full flavor. 

“ What’s your opinion, doctor, of Planny?” asked Errol, after a 
long pause with sudden emphasis. 

Puff— puff ! “ Oh, all right; bovine young man !” 

“You don’t mean that? Just like my internal luck!” 

Dr. Lembic took his cigar out of his mouth, turned round, and 
loohed his companion straight in the face. 

“ I see,” he said. 

Errol grinned strangely. “ Yes,” he replied, “ that would be a 
blind eye which tailed'to review this situation.” 

“Hum! Yes! The estate, 1 suppose, is entailed on this big 
brute Planny, and if he went you come in. Ergo, it -w-ould be ad- 
vantageous it he could be got to retire from this sublunary scene, to 
which he is au incubus rather than an ornament.” 

“ Precisely so. And that is the reason why 1 wired for you.” 

Dr. Lembic started; indeed, he dropped his cigar. 

“ if oil see,” muttered Errol, looking round rather nervously, tis 
though the beech and the oak trees regarded him as a sort of crimi- 
nal Orpheus, and had taken^to listening — “.you see, my friend, 
there’s more ways than one of hanging a dog. Planny was delirious 
two days ago. That meant fever. Now, fever may be intermittent. 
It may return after many hours of absolute repose. It might return, 
might it not, in his case?” 

“ It might turn to typhoid,” smiled Dr. Lembic, mysteriously. 

“ And,” observed EitoI, “ typhoid is a perfectly natural and nor- 
mal exit from this wicked world.” 

“ Oh, yes, most proper, most convenient.” 

“ Then, doctor, why not try how far Planny ’s bovine constitution, 
weakened as it must be by his illness, could bear up against ty- 
phoid?” 

“ Bear up? Absurd! It should not bear up it I meant it to bear 
down, my boy. But before we go further let us understand each 


UNDER WHICH KINO? 57 

other. Tlih arrangement would largely benefit you; but as regards 
m3^selt?” and he pulTed a big whiff. 

“I’m open to meet you like a friend, on the most liberal terms. 
In fact, you’ve only got to say what j^ou want.’’ 

“ Oh, no! The offer must come from your side.’’ 

“ That’s awkward. All 1 can say is, that if what 1 suggest does 
not meet j^our views, say so. 1 thought, doctor, one year’s income 
of the estate — that is, £15,000.’’ 

Dr. Lembic smiled. 

“£15,000,’’ he echoed. “'Well, under existing circumstances, 
your brotiier would marry, and — ’’ 

“Marry!” hissed Lrrol. “Yes. 1 owe him one for that. The 
low rascal has stolen my girl —bless him.” 

“Not Miss Ida?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then, cerUtf, Errol, you have cause enough to wish for a large 
Nemesis. Miss Ida is as lovely a piece of goods as I’ve seen for 
many a long year;, in fact 1 should like to vivisect her.” 

“ Oh, ah!” grunted Errol, by no means charmed at this mauvaise 
plaisaniei'ie; “but to return- to business. 1 said £15,000.” 

“ And 1,” coolly retorted Dr. Lembic, “ beg to state I don’t con- 
sider that by any means a magnificent recompense for a service 
which involv.es some little difficulty.” 

“ £30,000, then? Come.” 

“ Let me calculate. If the property is worth fifteen thousand a 
year net, exclusive of the house and grounds, which 1 should cer- 
tainly value at another thousand, that at three per centj’epresents 
half a million, doesn’t it?” 

“ Yes; but my father may live another thirty years.” 

“ Or barely thirty weeks.” 

“ 'Well, no, I don’t care about getting rid of my poor old dad. Ho 
and. 1 differ at times, but there’s a certain sympathy between us; 
whereas Planny and 1 are antipathies, so much so that at times 1 
could take my oath he’s no blood-relation of mine. Flatly, 1 could 
not touch a hair of my father’s head. 1 am no sentimentaUst, but l 
should feel uncomfortable it 1 did that. He is my friend, and I’ve 
not yet come down to injuring my friends.” 

Dr. Lembic shrugged his shoulders. “ Very dutiful, I’m sure, 
and most Christian on your part. However, to cut it short, 1 
should imagine you could borrow easily, say a hundred thousand on 
your reversion, if you were heii under the entail. Let us take that 
as the basis. ” 

“ Well?” 

“Now as to the modus operandi. Typhoid germs have to be pro- 
cured first, then introduced into the patient’s system— all the easier 
when he is in a febrile condition— and I’ll give him something to 
augment the existing fever, and then, so to speak, he will have to be 
fed by careful treatment. 1 shall first have to run up to town, in 
Older to arrange for the importation of the germs, and to bring down 
the drugs to aggravate the disease when once it is introduced into 
the blood, 1 will bring back with me ten promissory notes of £5,000 
each. These you will sign. Should Flanny survive they will be 
waste-paper, and 1 will return them to you. Should the treatment 


58 UNDER WHICH RING? 

succeed, 1 shall expect you to honor them within three months of 
your stepping into his shoes. Does that meet your views?” 

“Yes,” replied Errol, retlectively, ‘‘that will do. l(es. Have 
another cigar, and then we’d better be thinking about lunch. It’s a 
good ha!f-iiour’s walk from here to the Court, and the governor is. 
abominably punctual about feeding— alwa.ys puts his old head in the 
manger at precisely the same hour day after day.” 

Dr. Lembic rose and stretched his limbs, yawning, with the cool 
inditference of a man who had been conversing on the most ordi- 
nary and commonplace of topics, instead of one involving life and 
death. He valued, in truth, life, whether in man or in the lower 
creatures, as an abstract consideration— much as the rest of us value 
the life of a flower, a vegetable, or a tree. In other words, he would 
take it or leave it alone, just according as it suited his interest or 
caprice. Errol, though anxious enough to sacrifice his brother, 
whom he hated, could not bring himself to send his father out of 
the world prematurely. Dr. Lembic, however, was more philosoph- 
ically callous. He would with calm indifference offer up on the 
altar of science or selfishness the mother who bore him or the wife 
of his bosom, if he had happened to have one. He would have 
cheerfully vivisected-a girl whom he admired in his soul to the verge 
of adoration; in short, he resembled nothing in history so much as 
those Oriental kings who laid the foundations of new cities on the 
corpses of their own sons whom they had butchered for that end. 

As they were about to move, a beau reive occurred to the doctor 
and he pulled up sharp, and stared his companion in the face. 

“ By the bye,” he said, ‘‘ suppose 1 remain here with Planny and 
send you to town tor the typhoid germs and the bills?” 

Errol paled. 

” But,” he protested, ” 1— I might catch th$ infection. 1 don’t 
mind going to town; indeed, I’d rather be out of the way; but, you 
see, I’m rather inexperienced in dealing with inf ectious diseases, and 
something serious might happen to me. ” 

The doctor burst into an uncontrollable torrent of laughter. 

“ Good— very good!” he exclaimed. “ So I’m to earn the monev. 
am 1, friend Errol? Well, so be it; onlj’^ 1 did not give 5 ' 6 u credit 
for being afflicted with nerves. Afraid of poetical justice Divine 
Nemesis, the bitei being bit, ell? Bah! you’re only half a scientist 
after all.” 

“ Come along. I tell you we shall be late for luncheon,” was all 
Errol could rejoin. There was something withering in the sarcasm 
of this cynical, stony-hearted, reckless inquisitor, who had so fasci- 
nated him, and it caused him to wince and bite his lip. 

And so the pair moved rapidly away, down, and yet further down 
the steep slope of the chalh-hill, Dr. Lembic sneering at the law 
which could hang a man for giving his fellow-creature a pinch of 
arsenic, strychnia, or prussic acid, and could detect ever so subtle a 
poison as aconitine or antimony, yet failed to bring men to justice 
for the parallel offense of communicating a deadly disease wuth in- 
tent that it t^iould cause death; and this impotency of the law of tho 
land, which seems always to presume that infection is administered 
by sheer accident, caused the man of science to laugh merrily till the 


UNDEll Wllicn KIKG? 59 

ancient hills echoed again and again to the peals which sounded 
eldritch indeed, the mirth of malevolence. 

Perhaps he would have been less disposed to indulge in this un- 
earthly explosion of laughter had he for a second turned hih head 
over his shoulder. The oaks had not been eavesdroppers, neither had 
the beeches nor the yews; nevertheless, all this conversation, all this 
coldly brutal bargain of blood had been overheard. 

Robert Hodge, not having a lodging, and being loath, as lovers 
will be ever, to part from the girl of his heart when his assumed ri- 
val was on the spot, instead of marching overnight to the next town 
— a decayed coaching stoppage named Frampingham— remarked 
tliat the wind was south, and so toiled up to the shanty, lit a fire tor 
himself, and slept under the thatch beneath a pile of brushwood. He 
had taken with him his rude breakfast, and, after partaking of it, 
lay down beneath the brushwood to sleep or think, as might be; and 
thus it chanced, as by a miracle, that his ear was within a foot of 
Errol’s eU)Ow as be sat on that log and divulged the plot he had con- 
cocted to Di. Lembic, receiving in return the pledge of that disinter- 
ested friend of his. 

Robert stole forth stealthily to w\atch the retreating forms and sat- 
isfy himself that he was not mistaken in the voices, one of which 
was familiar enough to him; the other that of a stranger of whom 
he had heard mention in the gossip of the village. 

“ Ha!" he soliloquized, “ the Book is not far wrong when it says 
that the love of money is the root of all evil. To think of these two 
being up to that game! A nice pair of demons they are, and this is 
what comes of education and all that. Yes, education would be good 
if we were all equal; but, hold, what is this that flashes across my 
mind? VYhy, by all that’s hideous, if Master Plantagenet should 
die, they’ll bring me in guilty of manslaughter! Yes. And so I’m 
bound to act, and act at once. But how?” 


CHAPTER Vll. 

TOO LATE. 

■\VniLE Errol and Dr. Lembic were enjoying their charming morn- 
ing w^alk, Sir Robert Marmyon felt it incumbent upon him, as an 
affectionate father, to take his seat by his heir’s bedside. Thanks to 
the local doctor, Plantagenet w^as slowly improving, but his visage 
was so cut about as to be quite ghastly, and a broken arm added to 
his misery not a little. The fever, however, wms gone, and the big 
fellow’s head cool; indeed he wished to cet up, but yielded to his 
sire’s urgent solicitations to remain quiet till he had received the per- 
mit of medical authority. 

” 1 liope,” prosed Sir Robert, ” this will be a warning to you never 
to meddle or mix with the infernal people. Jly dear fellow, we hate 
them and they us. We feast while they fast, and we are free wiiile 
they are slaves. There’s no nonsense about me, Planny. I’m a 
1 ory. 1 will always do my duty to tlie people as becomes a Chris- 
tian' gentleman, but the tuilher they are off me the better I’m 
IJieased. Their ways are abhorrent to my notions. There’s a feel* 


70 


UNDER WHICH KING? 

ance Dr. Lembic will voluntarily retire from the c^e. That, I as- 
sure you, is a matter of strict professioual etiquette.” 

. “Oh!” ejaculated Martha, dubiously. “ Thp would you ob- 
ject to my iiussing of the poor feller? 1 don’t wish for no selleiy. 

“ You must uot ask tliat. Lady Marmyon is her son’s proper and 
only nurse at this terrible crisis.” 

“ Lady Marmyon didn't nuss him as a hinfant!” whimpered Mar- 
tha. 

“ Now, now,” cried Sir Robert, “ do be a reasonable woman! I’m 
tryinei! to meet your wishes to the utmost of my ability, and 1 h do 
more, if you’ll promise me to keep quiet, and, above all things, not 
divulge your secret to a soul. I’ll do this, Mrs. Hodge. 1 11 insti- 
tute privately such in(iuiries as shall test the accuracy of your son 
Robert’s accusations against* Errol and Dr. Lembic, and if 1 find out 
these true, it ■will be the worse for both. That 1 swear!” 

This last word, having in it the sort of energy which appeals to a 
public-house intelligence, quite hoodwinked Mrs. Hodge. Her face 
beamed super Dly as she grasped Sir Robert’s hand with the assur- 
ance, 

“ i know’d you’d do right! I know’d you was a honorable gen- 
tleman. You’re not the man, 1 feel sure, to leave your first-born to 
the mussv of muddeiers. God bless ’ee. Sir Robert, and oh ! if the 
poor dear bo-oy as was mine to love and cherish in his childhood 
be spared— there, 1 ’most thinks 1 could give up the public-’us and 
take to the teetotals for joy and gratertude.” 

And thus the interview ended, but its results were far-reaching. 
Sir Robert, with his high sense of honor, and his naturally unsus- 
picious nature, at the outset mentally rejected the bare notice of vil- 
lainy on the part of either Errol or Dr. Lembic; but when Mrs. 
Hodge had waddled hei-self away to the Marmyon Arms, and he 
sat down to reflect coolly on her revelation, he could not conceal 
from himself that it was though improbable not impossible; also, 
that while it would be virtually unveritiable in either event, it might 
be absolute truth. Certainly Robert’s manner, when before him as 
magistrate, gave a color to it, so did Mrs. Hodge’s violence; and the 
only consideration on the other side was the advantage that Rdbert 
might have hoped to derive by trumping up this tale. This latter 
suspicion, however, was hardly on all-tours with Robert’s conduct 
in seeking him out at a moment when he was quite in ignorance of 
the fact tliat he was wanted by the police. In short, Sir Robert was 
oppressed by a mental incubus. Feeling that he ought to act with 
vigor and promptitude, his mind, notwithstanding, was irresolute, 
and*liis judgment paralyzed. 

He did, however, wire for Dr. Shadfort, who came down by the 
next train, examined the patient, prescribed for him, and compli- 
cated the situation not a little by congratulating Lady Marmyon on 
having on the spot so able and earnest a physician as Dr. Lembic. 

Then he left, without expressing an opinion. He promised, how- 
ever, in accordance with Sir Robert’s reiterated request, to run down 
as early as possible the next morning. 

After dinner the baronet summoned Errol into the library. 

“ Planny is dangerously ill,” was his opening remark. 


Uls'DER WHICH KIHG? 71 

“Oh,” replied the young man, jauntily, “no fear, he’ll pull 
through. Confound him, he always had luck on his side.” 

“ Indeed! 1 don’t agree with you.” 

A pause — Errol waiting to ascertain his sire’s pleasure. 

“ Errol,” remarked Sir Robert, nervously, “ il any thing happened 
to Planny, you would be my heir. In that case it would be a 
crushing misfortune for you if any suspicious circumstances en- 
vironed poor Planny ’s departure from this world.” 

And he fixed his eye full on the young man before him. 

A thrill, like a spasm, shook Errol’s frame, his mouth twitched, 
his lips blanched; but he replied, quite carelessly, “1 don’t quite 
comprehend your drift, father.” 

“ 1 will be candid; but first 1 must have your solemn assurance 
that what passes w'ithin these four walls is not to be repeated under 
any pretext to a living soul.” 

Errol bowed his acquiescence, and Sir Robert proceeded: 

“ Up to the very hour of your friend Dr. Lembic’s return from 
his sudden and inexplicffWe excursion to London, Planny was be- 
coming rapidly and satisfactorily convalescent. True, his arm was 
only just set, and his face is very grievously disfigured; but he had 
no fever about him, still less typhoid,” 

•“ You don’t mean to insinuate that Lembic’s given him typhoid? 
because it that’s what you’re driving at, it’s more thanl can stand.” 

“ Eh, what? Don’t hector, don’t menace me. Flatly, you have 
anticipated my meaning, and 1 speak, not on a presumption, but on 
evidence — yes, evidence, 1 am horrified to say, Errol.” 

If he wanted further evidence, he had only to look at the trem- 
bling, guilty countenance before him. EitoI’s braggadocio vanished, 
like a vapor in the sun, under the influence of plain words, and !Sfr 
Robert was certified of a truth he wished with all his heart to dis- 
believe. 

“ Have you nothing to say, Errol?” 

“ Nun— nothing,” gasped his son, in a ghastly tone, adding, “ ex- 
cept this — except this: it you have your suspicions, why don’t you 
accuse Lembic?” 

“ Because, Errol, if 1 accuse Lembic, I accuse my own son.” 

Silence. 

Errol’s breath came short and sharp. He could not utter a word, 
though he tried to, and his eye quailed under that of his father. 

At last Sir Robert spoke in a low, melancholy voice; “ What has 
been the cause of this 1 can not divine. It may be covetousness, 
jealousy on account of Ida Frankalmoign, or simple hate — the hate 
of Cain for Abel. 1 have to deal with fact, and, alasi Errol, known 
fact — fact revealed to ui^ by an influence remote from our circle! 1 
gave that assertion of fact the lie direct. 1 acted as though it was 
necessarily false. But 1 caif not go further to shield criminality, 
though. Heaven knows, 1 would perish rather than that my name, 
our ancient and glorious name, should suffer such disgrace. There 
may be yet time to avert consequences which, I warn you, would 
imperil your life, Errol. Go! Tell Dr. Lembic to leave this house 
at once. If he asks questions, refuse to answer. But go he shall 
and must, this very minute. Now, Errol^ will you obey me?” 

“ I will obey you to the letter, father.” 


62 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


pigeon-pie, pancakes, and cheese, and old ale — a modest, maidenly 
dinner. At last she came. 

“ You’re ill and taint,” she said. ‘‘ Have a bite or a sup, do. It 
vexes 1, Robert, to see you so down. Of course you done wrong, 
there ain't no doubt ot that; but it were all along of that Errol, I 
knows, as made yer wild with jealousy. All, he be a bad lot, he be. 
Came here yesterday and poisoned mother’s mind agen you. That 
he did. Mother would never have been that nasty if Errol hadn’t 
gone and terrified ’er with believin’ that Sir Robert ’ud turn ’er out 
if so be as she didn’t turn yer out.” 

” Oh,” remarked Robert, opening very wide his fine hazel eyes. 
“ So that’s it, is it? 1 am indebted to Mr. Errol Marmyon for that 
good turn. Well, perhaps, 1 may do as much for him, and more.” 
Whereupon in the fewest w^ords Robert narrated his adventure in the 
charcoal shanty, and the plot there concocted by Errol and Dr. 
Lembic. 

Belinda’s face expressed more than amazement at this startling 
recital. “ Why, ’tis murder! ’’she whispered, timidly. 

” Or will be if 1 don’t prevent it,” said Robert, his countenance 
twitching nervousl)’’, for he felt the gravity of the situation. 

” Are you sure you haven’t been dreamin’ all this yere?” hesitat- 
ingly inquired Belinda, with a side glance at his rough and dirty 
appearance. 

” I’ll take my solemn oath 1 have spoken the truth.” 

Belinda reflected. She had a shrewd head ot her own, with at 
times a shrewish tongue to match; not, however, for Robert. He 
was very much her heau ideal of what masculine humanity ought to 
be, and she often was wont to aver that one with such a refined ap- 
pearance, and frank yet polished manners, ought to have been a gen- 
tleman, let alone his talent— a quality which in the village, where 
brains were scarce, had been not a y^tle exaggerated by appreciative 
rustic simplicity. 

At last she said, quietly, ” 1 don’t seelny way clear. If so be as 
you did the straight thing, and went to Sir Robert with the same tale 
you’ve just told^ d’ye think he’d believe you? INot he, Robert. 
He’d say j'ou’re in disgrace for being concerned in damaging the 
bocjy of his eldest sou, and now you want to blast the character ot 
the other one. In fact he might cut up nasty and send you to Maid- 
stone jail for slander.” 

” That’s so,” rejoined Robert, ” but it don’t set me forwarder.” 

” Suppose 1 has a word with mother,” suggested Belinda, who 
really looked, as she felt, overburdened with "embarrassment, and 
desirous of shifting the responsibility. 

‘‘ As you will,” he replied, indifferently, being a skeptic iiy^ard 
of Martha Hodge’s capacity for anj^thing except nips of ra\^f)irit. 
” As you will; but all 1 know is that it 1 didn’t repent ot having let 
in Master Plantagenet for that heavy hammering, I’d hold my tongue 
till the mischief was done, and then inform against Errol and that 
villain ot a doctor. It would serve the beggar right for interfering 
with my Polly. ” 

” JNonsensel” muttered Belinda; “that would never do. I’ll 
speak to mother, and be back in a minute or two.” 

The minute or two proved to be a quarter of an hour, at the ex- 


CJKDER WHICH KIHG? 63 

piration '^’hereof Belinda returned with a message to the effect that 
mother wanted to speak to him “ very pertickler.” 

At another time he would not have'obeyetl Martht^odge’s behest, 
especially after experiencing the rough side of her tongue. Kow, 
however" he was anxious, be was apprehensive, and greedy for some 
sort of synjpathetic advice. 

He found Martha in the back parlor, alone, Belinda having been 
told off to mind the bar; and for prudence’ sake he shut the com- 
municating door and faced the red-cheeked woman, who, strange to 
say, wai sobbing vehemently. 

‘ ‘ 1 are sorry, 1 are, Robert, as 1 spoke to jmu so unkind; but I 
have my own troubles, and they gets the better of my temper at 
times. Have a drop of something.^* 

“ No, nothing.” 

“ But you looks white and tired like. Here, try this.” 

“No. 1 have not come here to drink, but to consult. What is 
best to be done, d’ye think?” 

“ Lawk a mussy, Robert, it do completely upset 1. That there 
dear young feller, Plantagenet, as 1 nussedwithmy own bussom — ” 

“ Ye— es,” interrupted Robert, w^ho had two opinions about the 
merit, from a natural point of view, of that performance. 

“ To think,” whimpered she, “ of his being done to death by that 
there willain of a H’errol. But it sha’n’t be. No; that it sha’n't. 
Tou go and lace Sir Robert, my bo— oy, and if that don’t do. I’ll 
face him. If you can’t force him to protect his own— the poor sick 
feller, as was bandied bad enough by you, Robert, and you oughter 
to be ashamed of the deed— perhaps "Martha Pledge can. Now go.” 

“But,” obseived Robert, coolly, “ Sir Robert will denounce me 
as a spy, a liai-, and a double-dyed scoundrel. In a moment of pas- 
sion at seeing my mates so knocked about by that big bully 1 helped 
to punish him, "and that will render my testimony unworthy of 
credit.” 

“Mayhap it will,” replied Martha, sententiously. “But it you 
don’t speak first, Robert, 1 can’t speak second. So, again I say go, 
and don’t delay, or the poor boy will be on the high-road to certain 
death. You will go, Robert, won’t ’ee?” 

Never in his life had Robert heard that mother of his speak in so 
tender a tone. AVhat could account for the immense and overpower- 
ing interest this selfish, sottish, stupid woman seemed to take in 
Plantagenet ? Nursing, so he began to opine, must be of the nature 
of a natural tie. 

licisurely, lazily indeed, he lounged out of the Marmyon Aims, 
and, with slow steps, wended his "way up the long avenue to the 
Court. Of course he went round to the back door, and was rather 
chagrined to find himself received with a coldness amounting to dis 
like bv his old friends, the servants. They too, apparently, were 
devoted to Plantagenet with all' the irrational loyalty of Martha 
Hodge. 

“ Want to see master?” said the flunkey, superbly. “ Well, you 
don’t expect me to take in that message, do yer? Guess you’ll have 
an interview with Sir Robert sooner than you expect or like, my gay 
young feller!” 

“ If'you don’t give my message to Sir Robert and say that I must 


64 


UNDER WHICH KINUf 


see him on a matter of life and death, I’ll walk straight into the 
drawing-room. Now, my lad.” 

“ Oh no, you won’t.” 

” Don’t try me. I’m not here on a fool’s errand. 1 tell you 1 
must and will see Sir Robert. Every minute’s of importance.” 

The flunkey looked him up and down, whistled, and retired; then 
Robert sat down in the porch to wait. 

Presently a rather more friendly face appeared. It was that of 
Flester Mazebrook, and it looked perturbed — very. 

‘‘What do you want here, Robert?’ she whispered, Ifiirriedly. 
‘‘ You must be daft to run your head into the lion’s den. Why 
don’t you make a clean bolt of it before the police catches 3 ^ 011 ?” 

‘‘ Police, Mrs. Mazebrook!” 

‘‘Don’t you know as there’s a warrant or something out again 
you for hurting Mr. Plantageuet? 1 heard tell as you was to bo 
brought up before Sir Robert this afternoon.” 

Mrs. Mazebrook, this is news— bad news. But that does not sig- 
nify. 1 want a few words in secret with Sir Robert. Can’t you 
contrive that for me? It is most important, far more so than my 
personal liberty. It is, indeed.’' 

Hester, never very perceptive, could not grasp anything so m 3 ^s- 
terioiis; so she shook her head and shut her eyes. 

” If 1 were to tell you, as a great secret, that tire life of Mr. Plan- 
tagenet depends upon it?” 

Then she opened her eyes. 

‘‘ What!” she cried, ‘‘ is there a wicked conspiracy, then, amono- 
your agitators, to kill the pore young gentleman? Oh, Robert 
Robert t how can you mix yourself with such ’orrible, ’ateful 
people?” 

” You’re wrong,” he replied, with dignity; ‘‘ do as 1 ask at once.” 

But Hester Mazebrook turned away, and in another second the 
flunkey returned with a message to the effect that Sir Robert Mar- 
myon declined to hold any communication with Robert Hodge, who 
was wanted by the police. 

Robert turned oeadly pale, and his mouth showed how profoundly 
he felt his position. He was about to move awaywith the design of 
warning Martha Hodge of his total failure, when he observed ap- 
proaching the door no less a personage than Mr. inspector Granden 
with a biggish myrmidon. In a second he was captured, and taken 
into the justice-room before Sir Robert. 

The charge was made, the policeman being witness, and after a 
few depositions had been entered, the baronet^asked it he had any- 
thing to say in response to the charge. 

” Sir Robert,” he replied, with profound emotion, ‘‘ 1 have much 
to say, and for pity’s sake, for your sake more than my own, 1 im- 
plore 3 ’'ou to grant me a private hearing. 1 pledge you my sacred 
word that what I have to confide could not be uttered before a soul 
in this wide world, save yourself, and, to prove my sincerity, i here 
solemnly declare that 1 am bitterly sorry at having been the causa 
of your son’s misfortune. Sir Robert, it is for his sake 1 beg a pi i- 
vate interview. You have known me from my infancy. My mother 
was your son’s foster-mother. You will not, Sir Robert, refuse iiiev 
For youi son’s sake. Sir Robert!” 


UXD-ER WHICH KIHG? C5 

Ihere was passion and pathos in this, and both were intensified 
by the tears that coursed down the young man’s cheeks. Sir Kobert 
himself was moved, but he had his own preconceived notions, and 
regarded this emotion merely in the light of so much tutile peni- 
tence, the grief which is never so intense as when on the eve of meet- 
ing with the reward of its evil deeds. 

^ “ I am sorry for your sad position, Robert Hodge. 1 am very 
sorry. But 1 have a duty to perform to society as a magistrate, as 
well as in the capacity of a father. 1 cannot permit you to try and 
work upon my feelings so as to defeat the ends of justice. That, 
you know, Robert, is your motive.” 

” It is not — it is not!” he shouted, hysterically. 

' “ Then 1 cannot divine it, neither do 1 desire to do so,” 

I Robert’s countenance changed at this. He perceived that his ap- 
peal was rejected, and pride caused his bosom to swell. ‘‘Very 
well,” he muttered between his teeth, adding ‘‘ your blood be upon 
your own head. You are acting, in your blind suspicion the part 
of a madman. Enough, 1 am ready, inspector, to go to jail. 1 have 
done my best. Heaven knows.” 

* ****** 

‘‘ It’s a very odd thing, Belinda, that our Robert don’t come back 
from the Court. Here it’s arter tea-time ever so long, and Sir Rob- 
ert’s about agoing to dinner. What can keep the feller'i' He ain’t 
likely to stop and drink.” 

“it are odd,” responded Miss Belinda, in a tone of extreme 
duhiet3^ 

“ And the wust is,” continued Mrs. Hodge, “ the liagercation do 
bring on these yere hoffal spazziims. Another drop of brandy, Bel- 
inda, it you — hie — loves I, and — hie — a drop ofdaudanum in it. 
What 1 suffers h’angels n’only knows.” 

Belinda impatiently handed her mollier the two perilous fluids; for 
there happened to be a call for a pot in the bar, and customers re- 
quiring pots will not wait. They are too important. 

Mrs. Hodge accordingly, who had been doctoring these spasms 
all the afternoon, helped herselt, tasted the liquid, and remarking, 
“ blest if I ain’t forgot the laudanum,” took a double dose of that 
soporific. Then she laid down on the sofa, and in ten minutes was 
so sound asleep that her daughter could not have awakened her had 
she been so disposed, which assuredly was not the case. 

And so Belinda went on her routine duty, chaffering, chafiing, 
serving, and taking money— tor since the political meeting religion 
had rather waned, and trade had waxed in proportion — until closing 
hours, when she suddenly recollected that there was no Robert on 
the prenxises. 

She was just about to wish the last sot, who adhered to his seat 
like a limpet, good night, when in rushed, with pallid lips, Polly 
Williams. Something evidently was wrong. 

“ Why, what?” 

“ Haven’t you heard the drellul news?” sobbed the pretty girl, 
“ Robert’s took to Maidstone!” 

“Never!” gasped Belinda; “ and mother in such a state! What 
is to be done?” 

Echo answered “ what?” 


06 


UXDTIR WHICH HTHCr? 

“ Look here, Polly. They don’t go to bed at the Court till mid- 
night. Run up, there’s a good child, and find out if the strange 
doctor from Oxford left to-day, and if he^s expected back.” 

Polly did as she was bid, and brought back tidings that Br. Lem- 
bic went to town after luncheon, and returned after dinner. 


CHAPTER Vlll. 

IT IS TYPHOID. 

IMabtha Hodge’s physical and mental condition the following 
morning can better be imagined than described. She could only 
groan, and bewail her wracking head; and it was not until the after- 
noon that she contrived to dress and appear down-stairs — a warning 
indeed to all her victims against the habit whereof she was now the 
abject slave as -well as the apostle. 

Then she first learned from her daughter the situation. ' Robert 
in durance vile at Maidstone, Dr. Lembic returned from bis visit to 
town, in exact accordance with the anticipations of Robert, and 
nothing known in the village concerning Plantagenet Marmyon’s 
condition. 

‘‘ Send to the Court and ask how the young man is!” such was 
Mrs, Hodge’s mandate, delivered imperiously. 

The response was, ” No worse. If anything, rather better. Dr. 
Lembic in constant attendance. Local doctor not required till the 
day after to-morrow.” 

Jllartha Hodge pressed her raging forehead as she tried to listen 
attentively. Then she repeated each item of the bulletin carefully. 

” No worse, and rather better. That’s good. No harm done yet. 
Dr. Lembic in constant attendance. That’s bad. Local man not 
needed. That’s worse. W ell, Belinda, if so be as 1 feels better by five 
o’clock. I’ll take your arm up to the Court. Give me a drop, please. 
There’s nothing for this complaint like ‘ the hair of the dog that bit 
one.’ ’Tis a sovereign remedy.” 

The “hair ’’had its effect. By five o’^clock Mis. Hodge was 
drow^sy and forgetful. Even in a matter of life and death, drink 
overrode every consideration, besides which she had been reared in 
the old rural principle never to do to-day what can be done to- 
morrow. 

But on the morrow there came this line from Maidstone Jail: “ If 
you’ve neglected to see Sir Robert, 1 won’t be answerable for what ' . 
happens;” and this aroused the insensate inebriate to action — at last. • 

She waddled up to the Court, and oh, what a change was there 
between Martha, the village beauty, who came to nurse the heir of 
Marmyon, and this bloated female with her puffy crimson cheeks, 
her dropsical limbs, thick throat, and rough voice! Sir Robert him- 
self, who— needless to add — never crossed the evil threshold of the 
Marmyon Arms, hardly recognized her. 

Well, Mrs. Hodge, and so 5 ’’ou want to see me. Then you must 
be veiy quick, please, for we are all in grievous trouble here. Thanks 
to that precious son of yours, my dear boy, Plantagenet, has tfiat 
which 1 fear will bring sorrow and mourning into this house, Mrs. 
Hodge — sorrow and mourning!” 


UKDER WHICH KIHG? 67 

Martha winced, and her lip quivered. Then she walked up to Sir 
Robert and, with unwonted tamiliarity, Jaid her fat hand on his 
shoulder. 

“ Do you tell me he’s got typhoid?” 

” 1— I — 1 n’never mentioned the word typhoid, woman” — ^this not 
only curtly but angrily. ” What do you mean?” 

She looked at him steadily, and with an expression of countenance 
that, if mysterious, was certainly not unintelligent. 

“ 1 mean typhoid,” she replied, with emphasis: “ I’ll tell you the 
why and wherefore anon. But just answer me this: aid you hear 
what our Robert had to tell ye?” 

“Notl.” 

” And Mr. Plantagenet is worse, ever so much, and Dr. Lembic’s 
got him in hand, and — ” A flood of hysterical sobs, and an ava- 
lauche of tears. 

“Pshaw!” murmured Sir Robert, testily; “ what’s the good of 
all this? 1 really cannot waste time on you now, Mrs. Hodge. I’m 
too anxious— far too anxious 1” 

“Sir Robert,” she cried, for he was moving toward the door — 
“Sir Robert, you must hear, come what may. Your son Plantag- 
enet’s being murdered, ay, murdered, man!” 

“Woman!” . 

The look of Sir Robert’s face was that of one who had been wan- 
tonly and wickedly injured and insulted. He broke from her there 
and then, and w'as about to order her to be put out of the Court by 
force, when, to his horror, she spiung upon him, gripped his coat, 
and with flaming eyes hissed forth, “ You shall not go till you have 
heard all! You must hear it sooner or later. Hear it now, before 
it’s quite too late, for my sake, for Mr. Plantagenet’s sake, dear, 
dear Sir Robert!” 

Was the w'oman drunk, mad, what? No, it was only half-past 
ten in the morning, and she was sober, and, except for her intense 
emotion, sane. Sir Robert’s quick perception told him that even if 
it were a cock-and-bull tale, a figment of the imagination, he must 
listen; so he placed her quietly in a chair beside him, closed the 
door, folded his hands and said, “ 1 will hear you attentively, Mrs. 
Hodge. Pray collect yourself, and be careful what you say.” 

And he did listen to" every syllable she had to pour into his ear, 
and when she ended, paused for a moment before speaking. The 
revelation staggered him. 

At last, he said, quietly, “You don’t expect me to believe this?” 

“ But 1 do expect you to believe it!” she rejoined, catching up 
his words angrily and impatiently. 

“ This,” continued the baronet, “ strikes me as being a clever ex- 
cuse on the part of Robert to evade justice, but—” 

“ No, Sir Robert. Don’t delude yourself. It is not Robert that 
has had the courage to speak out. He might have told you the 
truth right in front of the inspector, but he didn’t. When you re- 
fused to hear, he f?hut his stupid mouth like an obstinate, reckless, 
ill-conditioned brute. No. it’s Martha Hodge, Uie woman as gave 
her breastis to the fine young man as is lying between life and death 
upstairs, as is here to give you warning. As for Robert, punish 
him. Give it to the fellow hot and strong, Sir Robert. Give ’im a 


68 


UJSTDER wmcn KIKG? 


twelvemouth at the tread-mill, for all 1 cares. ’Twill do him a 
sight of good, take dowa his pride, and hnock the nonsense out of 
his head. It’s Master Plantagenet, as 1 am a-thinkin’ of. Sir Rob- 
ert; for his dear sake, don’t ’ee let that devil Lembic be about him. 
1 ou send for the London doctor, and I’ll bless you — for evermore 
—1 will—” 

^ And then, incredible as it may appear, Martha Hodge, with stream- 
ing eyes, seized the baronet’s hand and kissed it. 

Sir Robert indeed would have been opinionated and insensate had 
he quite ignored this ebullition ot feeling. It was real beyond a' 
doubt, yet somehow he could not shake ofi the impression that Rob- 
ert Hodge, clever fellow as he indisputably was, had fudged up this 
story for his own benefit; so he replied in a very gentle j^et firm 
tone, ” My dear Mrs. Hodge, pray don’t imagine 1 question your 
sincerity, but you will pardon my saying that 1 really believe vou 
have been misinformed. Ton are, if you understand my meaning 
the honest victim of an illusion.” 

^ Martha stared at him stonily and stupidly. Her apprehension, as 
m the case with middle-aged females addicted to fuddling, was ex- 
ceedingly tardy. At last, however, she grasped his meaning, and 
thdn the natural answer rose to the top of her tongue. 

“ You it h, Sir Robert, as is mistook, not me. Robert came to 
me tliq arterffoon before last, and he says, says he, that there Lem- 
bic’s going to London to bring down they there typhoid germs 
whereby he says Master Plantagenet is to betooked with— the deadly 
fever, he says. Now am 1 right or am I wrong? Did this Lembic 
go to London sudden that very day?” 

‘‘Yes. That is clear enough. Also that your son may have 
overheard some sort of conversation between my son Errol and the 
doctor in which the latter may have announced' his intention to run 
up to town. That, however, Mrs. Hodge, proves nothing— at all 
events to my mind.” ® 

Again Martha’s visage wore the dull look of one stupefied- but 
apin also it lightened up, for she replied to the baronet’s loo-ic’with 
simple force, ” Aes. But the poor fellow were getting better Mrs 
Mazcbrook told 1 so only five minutes ago, until that Lembic come 
back from London, and now he’s down for good and all< He’s 
bein’ murdered, he is.” 

And the tears flowed afresh with yet intenser bitterness. 

Sir Robert was for the nonce staggered. This rough iuxtaposi-’ 
tiou of two and two quite posed him. He could not answer her 
anyhow on the lines of logic, yet he declined to admit her accusa- 


“ You’ve done your duty, Mrs. Hodge,” he faltered, rather fool- 
ishly, for his dignity would not rise quite to the occasion; ‘‘and 
none of us can do more. What you have confided to me shall be 
carefully considered, and 1 promise you it will stimulate me to— to 
— keep my weather eye open, Mrs. Hodge.” 

“Yes,” rejoined she, ” but that’s not satisfactory. If you won’t 
^ive your son Plantagenet, 1 give you fair warning, Sir Robert 
Marinyon, I will— if ’taint too late.” 

“ ITou?” 

Acs, me! Me, Martha Hodge, as nursed that blessed bo-oy with 


tlNDER WHICH KIKG? 


69 


my body. I’m in earnest, and 1 tell you this flat, Sir Robert, either 
you bundle that there Lembic and your wicked son Errol outot your 
house, and bring down that London doctor — what’s his name — or I 
go straight to Maidstone and lay an ihtormation against that pre- 
cious pair for conspiracy to murder.” 

“Mrs. Hodge!” 

“ Ay, ay, Sir Robert, you can’t rightly judge the stuff: I’m made 
ot. You think because you’re my landlord, and have been my 
patron and all that, you think I’m bound at this moment to knuckle 
under to you, and see that poor dear thing perish, and jmur precious 
son Errol seize upon his inheritance. That’s wdiat you thinks, but 
you are mistook, Sir Robert, you are! I’m desperate. In fact, 1 
wants to nuss the poor chap myself.” 

“ 1 think you're beside' yourself,” retorted Sir Robert, weakly. 
“ I think you are forgetting what is due to yourself, if not to me. 1 
think you are running a fine chance of ending your days in the 
workhouse, Mrs. Hodge.” 

And the baronet uttered this threat with determination. 

“ Very good!” replied Mrs. Hodge. “ Then my word’s my bond, 
Sir Robert. By the next train 1 goes to Maidstone.” 

There was no mistaking this. The woman meant mischief. Her 
resolve might be read in every line of her impurplea visage. It 
M-as all very irrational on her part; still, the action she proposed to 
take would involve difficulty, if not disgrace, and in the event of 
Plantagenet succumbing, would place a lasting stigma upon Errol. 
Evidently it was policy to temporize with the beldam, who had got 
the bit between her teeth. 

“ Sit down,” he said, with affected calmness, for in reality he 
was bubbling over with passion at this defiance ot his superb sig- 
noralty. “Sit down, my good soul. Now repeat what you have 
said. Repeat the whole story from the beginning. I do not wish, 
indeed for Planny ’s sake 1 can not afford, to be unreasonable, though 
at presentT am far from convinced.” 

This was a very diplomat ic move, for the fury of the veriest virago 
in creation will always evaporate to a certain extent in words. It 
was ten minutes’ penance to hear Martha Hodge’s story de capo, but 
Sir Robert resolved to bear it with every semblance of patient inter- 
est, too. 

“ iNow,” said he, in an altered tone, as though once more master 
in his own house, “ 1 begin to grasp the full significance ot your 
very painful revelation. Mis. Hodge, and 1 have to thank you tor 
the trouble you have taken to bring it home to my mind. 1 will, to 
a certain extent, avail myself of your advice, and endeavor to meet 
your wishes., 1 will telegraph for a London doctor. Our old friend 
ot years gone by. Sir Marshall Midwinter, has retired long ago, but 
Uie best man in febrile cases I’m told is Dr. Shadfort. His fee is 
fifty guineas for a single visit, but 1 shall not grudge that, or ten 
limes that, if necessary, yvill that satisfy you?” 

Martha pondered. 

“ ’Twill be little good,” she said, with quiet emphasis, “unless 
you dismiss Lembic; Lembic’s the butcher.” 

An expression of cunning passed over the baronet’s face as he re- 
joined, “ Oh, as regards that, as soon as Dr. Shadfort is in attend- 


70 UNDER WHICH KING? 

ance Dr. Lembic will voluntarily retire from the case. That, I as- 
sure you, is a matter of strict professional etiquette.'’ 

“Oh!” ejaculated Maitha, dubiously. “ Thp w^ould you ob- 
ject to my nussing of the poor feller? 1 don’t wish for no sellery.” 

“ You must not ask lliat. Lady Marmyon is her son’s proper and 
only nurse at this terrible crisis.” 

“ Lady Marmyon didn't nuss him as a hinfant!” whimpered Mar- 
tha. 

“ Now, now,” cried Sir Robert, “ dobe a reasbnable woman! I’m 
tryine to meet your wishes to the utmost of my ability, and I’ll do 
more, if you’ll promise me to keep quiet, ^ and, above all things, not 
divulge your secret to a soul. I’ll do this, Mrs. Hodge. I’ll insti- 
tute privately such in(iuiries as shall test the accuracy of your son 
Robert’s accusations against' Errol and Dr. Lembic, and it 1 find out 
these true, it will be the worse for both. That 1 swear!” 

This last word, having in it the sort of energy which appeals to a 
public-house intelligence, quite hoodwinked Mrs. Hodge. Her face 
beamed super Dly as"^ she grasped Sir Robert’s hand with the assur- 
ance, 

“ 1 know’d you’d do riglit! I know’d you w^as a honorable gen- 
tleman. You’re not the man, 1 feel sure, to leave your first-born to 
the mussy of mudderers. God bless ’ee, Sir Robert, and oh! if the 
poor dear bo-oy as was mine to love and cherish in his cnildhood 
be spared — there, 1 ’most thinks 1 could give up the public-’us and 
take to the teetotals for joy and gratertude.” 

And thus the interview ended, but its results were far-reaching. 
Sir Robert, with his high sense of honor, and his naturally unsus- 
picious nature, at the outset mentally rejected the bare notice of vil- 
lainy on the part of either Errol or Dr. Lembic; but when Mrs. 
Hodge had waddled herself away to the Marmyon Arms, and he 
sat down to reflect coolly on her revelation, he could not conceal 
from himself that it was though iuiprobable not impossible; also, 
that while it would be virtually unverifiable in either event, it might 
be absolute truth. Ceilainly Robert’s manner, when before him as 
magistrate, gave a color to it, so did Mrs. Hodge’s violence; and the 
only consideration on the other side was the advantage that Rbbert 
might have hoped to derive by trumping up this tale. This latter 
suspicion, however, was hardly on all-tours with Robert’s conduct 
in seeking him out at a moment when he was quite in ignorance of 
the fact that he was wanted by the police. In short. Sir Robert was 
oppressed by a mental incubus. Feeling that he ought to act with 
vigor and promptitude, his mind, notwithstanding, was irresolute, 
andliis judgment paralyzed. 

He did, however, wire for Dr. Rhadtort, who came down by the 
next train, examined the patient, prescribed for him, and compli- 
cated the situation not a little by congratulating Lady Marmyon on 
having on the spot so able and earnest a physician as Dr. Lembic. 

Then he left, without expressing an opinion. He promised, how- 
ever, in accordance with Bir Robert’s reiterated request, to run down 
as early as possible the next morning. 

After dinner the baronet summoned Errol into the library. 

“ Planny is dangerously ill,” was his opening remark. 


UNDER WHICH KING? 71 

“Oh,” replied the young man, jauntily, “no fear, he’ll pull 
through. Confound him, he always had luck on his side.” 

“ Indeed! 1 don’t agree with you.” 

A pause — Errol waiting, to ascertain his sire’s pleasure. 

“ Errol,” remarked Sir Ilobert, nervously, “ if anything happened 
to Planny, you would be my heir. In that case it would be a 
crushing misfortune for you if any suspicious circumstances en- 
vironed poor Planny ’s departure from this world.” 

And he fixed his eye full on the young man before him. 

A thrill, like a spasm, shook Errol’s frame, his mouth twitched, 
his lips blanched; but he replied, quite carelessly, “1 don’t quite 
comprehend your drift, father.” 

“ 1 will be candid; but first 1 must have your solemn assurance 
that what passes wdthin these four walls is not to be repeated under 
any pretext to a living soul.” 

Errol bowed his acquiescence, and Sir Eobert proceeded: 

“ Up to the very hour of your friend Dr. Lembic’s return from 
his sudden and inexplicjfWe excursion to London, Planny was be- 
coming rapidly and satisfactorily convalescent. True, his arm was 
only just set, and his face is very grievously disfigured; but he had 
no fever about him, still less typhoid.” 

You don’t mean to insinuate that Lembic’s given him typhoid? 
because it that’s what you’re driving at, it’s more thanl can stand,” 

“ Eh, what? Don’t hector, don’t menace me. Flatly, you have 
anticipated my meaning, and 1 speak, not on a presumption, but on 
evidence — yes, evidence, 1 am horrified to say, Errol.” 

If he wanted further evidence, he had only to look at the trem- 
bling, guilty countenance before him. EitoI’s braggadocio vanished, 
like a vapor in the sun, under the influence of plain words, and Sh.’ 
Robert was certified of a truth he wished with all his heart to dis- 
believe. 

“ Have you nothing to say, Errol?” 

“ Nun— nothing,” gasped his son, in a ghastly tone, adding, “ ex- 
cept this— except this: if you have your suspicions, why don’t you 
accuse Lembic?” 

“ Because, Errol, if 1 accuse Lembic, I accuse my own son.” 

Silence. 

Errol’s breath came short and sharp. He could not utter a word, 
though he tried to, and his eye quailed under that of his father. 

At last Sir Robert spoke in a low, melancholy voice: “ What has 
been the cause of this 1 can not divine. It may be covetousness, 
jealousy on account of Ida Frankalmoign, or simple hate — the hate 
of Cain for Abel. 1 have to deal with fact, and, alas I Errol, known 
fact — fact revealed to ui^ by an influence remote from our circle! 1 
gave that assertion of met the lie direct. 1 acted as though it was 
necessarily false. But 1 caif not go further to shield criminality, 
though. Heaven knows, 1 would perish rather than that my name, 
our ancient and glorious name, should suffer such disgrace. There 
may be yet time to avert consequences which, I warn jmu.^would 
imperil your life, Errol. Go! Tell Dr. Lembic to leave thw house 
at once. If he asks questions, refuse to answer. But go he shall 
and must, this very minute. Now, Errol^ will you obey me?” 

“ I will obey you to the letter, father.” 


72 TODEPt WHICH KIKH? 

That was all. The library door opened, and they left the room 
together. 

* * ***** 

Mrs. Hodge, after her interview with Sir Robert, first sought the 
private chamber of Mrs. Hester Mazebrook, and over a glass of Mar- 
myon port — vintage 1847, fruity and fortified, but to the female 
palate highly acceptable— had a little confidential chat. Mrs. Maze- 
brook must have been a little surprised at Martha Hodge’s whis- 
pered confidences, for, truth to tell, her face wore the rather per- 
turbed air afterward of one who had knowledge of something 
which somehow must be bottled up, yet ought by every moral right 
to be uncorked. Nevertheless, with the wisdom of a woman who 
has learned by experience the policy of reticencp, she held her 
tongue. It was only the rather anxious look on her face that indi- 
cated her mental disquietude; in other respects she preserved her 
normal appearance. 

The 1847 quaffed — and it did not take long, for Hester was by no 
means prodigal of a luxury reserved onl^for very old friends on very 
special occasions — Mrs. Hodge walked homeward with the heavy 
tread of obesity. But before seeking her own domicile she thought 
she would give Mrs. Gipps a call. They were friends, in the sense 
of being gossips, though Martha Hodge in the days of her greivlest 
prosperity had never conferred any special favor on the good woman 
who had nursed by hand her Robert, possibly because in her secret 
soul she cherished a giaidge about those twenty pounds, which John 
Hodge, in his petulant perversity— to. her own intense horror, anger, 
and indignation— had paid over, according to previous promise, to 
the poor widow. They represented, in fact, twenty years of spite. 

’ To-day, however, Martha Hodge was singularly affectionate to 
"Widow Gipps, sympathized with her rheumatics, chatted affably 
about her difSculties, and then, as with Hester Mazebrook, com- 
menced talking secrets, and secrets loo, which appeared to excite a 
reciprocal interest in Widow Gipps. In fact, after an hour of this 
style of confidential conversation, a singular pact was struclt — to this 
effect. Robert had been, as has been narrated, the old woman’s 
mainstay; and now that he was gone she had come within a meas- 
urable distance of that bogey of pauper old age, the workhouse. 
When, therefore, Mrs. Hodge proposed that she should store her few 
sticks of furniture in the coach-house of the Marmyon Arms and 
take up her abode permanently under the roof of that hostelry as 
IMrs. Hodge’s guest, the offer w^as one which gladdened an aged 
heart, and was accepted witA effusive gratitude. It was not, liow- 
ever, subsequently quite so acceptable to another party concerned — 
Miss Belinda. “ What could have indu(||d you, mother, to bring 
that wretched, rheumatic, miserable hold thing Gipps into our ’ou.se, 
to be a burding and a bawther?” Whereun,to Mrs. Hodge made re- 
sponse, curtly, “ 1 knows my business, 1 does, gal, and don’t you 
go to meddle 1” 


tlJSTDER WHICH KIHG? 


73 


CHAPTER IX. 

A pocket-book’s evidence. 

Sir Robert MarmVon’s cnnclor proved to be little less than thau- 
maturgic. He was, as the reader may have remarked, anything but 
a bad man as men go. Gifted with a lofty sense of honor, invari- 
ably considerate to fiis equals, and chivalrous according to his no- 
tions ot chivalry, the baronet was the very man to go straight after 
he saw his way clear. His faults were an ingrained selfishness, de- 
generating at times into meanness, and a perversity of intellect 
which led him to imagine that he fed the people, instead of, as was 
the plain patent fact, the people, as his cohort of servants and serfs, 
feeding him right royally. His errors, perhaps, were rather those of 
education and association than ot ethics. Indeed, according to 
Aristotle’s definition, he approached near enough to the magnani- 
mous to be in the main worthy the respect of his fellows. 

When, therefore, he was made cognizant ot the cruel fact that his 
son and an unprincipled scientist— one of those hideous excrescences 
of philosophic Agnosticism that go to prove the truth of man 
without human sentiment being a monstrosity — had calmly joined 
hands to compass the death of one whom in his heart he did not 
like, but w^ho was none the less heir to his title and estate, Sir Rob- 
ert acted with all the resolute promptitude of one of his crusading 
ancestors. He not only cleared Dr. L6mbic out of the house with- 
out the slightest pretense of courtesy, but he further dispatched Errol 
with the curt intimation that his presence would not be acceptable 
at Marmyon Court for some time to come. Then he sent a special 
messenger to London tor Dr. Shadfort, and, to make assurance 
doubly sure, dismissed the nurse whom Dr. Lembic had imported, 
and telegraphed for the only nursing woman with whose name he 
w'as familiar. Nurse Pratling. 

The conspirators left the Court together, taking the night train to 
London, and, as a matter of course, inasmuch as Sir Robert posi- 
tively declined to meet Dr. Lembic or wish him farewell, on Errol 
devolved the unpleasant duty of informing that eminent physiolo- 
gist that they were, it not absolutely discovered, at all events under 
grave suspicion. At this the experimental scientist laugned defiant- 
ly. Nevertheless, as soon as they were in the train and actually be- 
.yond the dire wrath of Sir Robert, he remarked, with quiet satisfac- 
tion, ^ 

“ All’s well that ends well, friend Errol Marmyon.” 

” 1 don’t understand you,” replied the other, whose reflections 
were much the reverse of agreeable. ” All 1 know is that if Planny 
does go, 1 should not like to be answerable for what course my fa- 
ther will adopt. He has certain quixotic notions of his own con- 
cernirjg right and wrong.” 

” Pooh!” retorted Dr. Lembic. ‘‘ Your nerve is simply gone, or 
you would not utter such childish balderdash. Do? Why, what 
could Sir Robert do? Did you ever read Pickwick? Don’t you re- 
member when old Wardle asks Alfred Jingle, ‘ What prevented him 


tJKDEH WHICH KIHG? 


74 

from denouncing liim as an impostor,’ how Jingle gave the old hum- 
bug a direct answer with ‘ Pride, sir, pride!’ Pride, my boy, would 
tie the Hands of Sir Robert. Do you imagine for an instant that for 
the sake of abstract justice or revenge he would gibbet his sole re- 
maining son, and that one heir of his ancient name? Bosh, Errol!” 

“ 1 don’t know.” 

” Of course you don’t, in your present state of scare. However, 
there’s no need to discuss a contingency which is not going to arise. 
If 1 feared it 1 should not say, as 1 do now, ‘ All’s well that ends 
well.’ But it was, in plain English, touch-and go. At the very 
instant when you hurried upstairs from the library with that ridic- 
ulously guilty tell-tale expression on your face, I was about to ad- 
minister something-better, perhaps, not be specific as to what that 
was— which would have finished Master Plant^genet. Under the 
circumstances, 1 thought it better policy to vary t& treatment. Ha! 
ha!” 

“ And with what apparent result?” 

” Well, candidly, it was not a virulent case of typhoid, and that 
behemoth of a brother of yours has a constitution of cast-iron. 1 saw 
from the first that, without artificial stimulus, he must inevitably 
pull through. He is now passing through the crisis. It will seem 
so to by-standers, though not, 1 fancy, to Shadfort, who has a splen- 
did diagnosis of his own, and will, fortunately, credit me — as is the 
case indisputably— with saving the patient’s life. Unless, therefore, 
your father is lunatic enough to chatter in sheer despair of the fel- 
low’s recovery, you and 1 have iio cause for nervousness; and that, 
1 will sw'ear. Sir Robert will not do.” 

‘‘ Planny will live, then,” whispered Errol, with a gasp of relief. 

” Bar accidents — that is, bar Shadfort’s blundering, which is a 
mathematical impossibility, or some amazing error in nursing, or, 
of course, the unforeseen. Y es, he w'ould live were 1 in attendance 
on him.” 

Another sigh of intense satisfaction. Conscience makes even 
rogues cow'ards. 

“I’m glad of it. A dozen Marmyons, and all the titles in the 
peerage, are not worth the hours of agony I’ve gone through.” 

“ Hum! Polly, weakness, sentiment! And you, Errol," a vivisec- 
tor! You, who will laue a dog in the full enjoyment of a happy, 
wholesome young life, strap it down to a board, put a gas; into it, 
mouth, and carve every fraction of it that is not vital, bit by bits 
limb by limb, reserving the vitals as a honne houche. What hypoc- 
risy! what sichening irrationality! Pray, what is the difference be- 
tween^ dog and a man? Answer me that.” 

“ Well,” stammered Errol, “ 1 suppose a man has what you call 
a soul, or, at all events, a greater facility for enjoyment than a do*^.” 

“ Soul!” snorted Dr. Lembic. “ What’s a soul? Who’s ever seen 
a soul? What, if you please, is the specific gravity of a soul? If 
you assert that the brain of Planny, for example, is bigger than that 
of your dog Flo, then 1 understand what you mean. But, even on 
that hypothesis, 1 really fail to perceive why there is any greater ob- 
jection to killing, or, if you please, viviseciing a man than a dog. 
In fact, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, if you talk about 
moral sentiment, the dog deserves a more merciful fate than the 


UNDER WHICH . KING? 75 

ID an. Depend upon it, my dear young friend, this kind of morbid 
scrupulosity, which after all is but the outcome of superstition, 
never exists in really great minds. Look at the two Napoleons. 
The first was educated in the grand school ot Robespierre, and he 
displayed a splendid indifference to every species of sentimentality, 
including marriage. Talk about vivisection! Surely he made all 
Europe one vast torture- trough, and his successor in the dynasty, 
Napoleon 111., was equally thorough. The coup d'Uat 1 consider a 
sublime stroke of genius.” 

Errol tried to smile, but the effort was feeble. He could not as 
yet boast the corticated conscience of Dr. Lembic. Perhaps his 
fault was that he was too young. The mental tissues seldom in- 
durate in callow youth. 

“ Then you don’t think such characters as Macbeth or Judas are 
drawn on the lines of nature? Eh, doctor?” 

^ ” Oh, yes, I'do. Imagination is a powerful factor in the compo- 
sition of the brain. I can quite understand a man of little backbone 
working himself up into a belief that he had committed a sin, but 
the effort would only be an excess of egotism.” 

” Do you mean to say you can’t sin?” 

“You may sin against our social code, and involve youi'self in 
disagreeable consequences. Otherwise, no.” 

” There I differ. If Planny had died, if Planny were to die, 1 
should roam the world like Lamech, a horror to myself.” 

” That, my young friend, is your egotism. You’ve too much 
self-esteem about you. Y'ou exaggerate your own importance.” 

Errol pondered for afnoment. Then lie replied, 

“ Amour propre, surely, would hardly account for a state of feel- 
ing that would cause one to hate and loathe one’s self.” 

” Oh, yes, it would. Pardon me, Errol Marmyon is a Unitarian. 
He worships one god, and that god is Errol IVIarniyon. Your deity 
would — for some reason best known to itself — be implacable, and so 
you would, as you imagine, exist in a kind of Inferno. But you 
are wrong. The first bottle ot champagne, a glance at the big 
balance at your banker’s, and a kiss from Miss Ida's sweet lips — 
faugh! such delights would cure the megrims in a trice. Do you 
imagine that Napoleon 111. could not enjoy life because the gutters 
of Paris were impurpled with the blood of his friends as well as his 
foes, with a holocaust of innocent victims slain by his mandate? 
My dear Errol, your sentiments are simply pappy — infantile.” 

” Perhaps,” faltered Errol, apologeticall 3 % after a pause, ‘‘ I’m 
rather inclined to imbecility just nowq because I’ve had the bad luck 
to everlastingly offend my father.” 

” Ah, that’s practical. There is soma sense in regretting a mis- 
take. But, in the name of wonder, however did Sir Robert guess 
our little game?” 

“ 1 cannot imagine. Can the nurse have suspected?” 

“No; of that 1 am positive. 1 brought her down as being one 
who regards me reverentially. Besides, she knows nothing.” 

” Then I am posed.” 

” And 1 too, not being an ardent believer in special revelations. 
But what matter? You did not confess, or talk in your sleep?” 

“Not I.” 


76 


UNDER WHICH' KING? 


“ Enough: we hold a hostage in the fact of your name being Errol 
Marmyon. There is no stronger motive fjower in this wide world 
than tart ily pride. It seloji moi a vulgar, irrational, inaccurate, 
and ridiculous anachronism, but its potentiality survives, and can 
throw a veil over what people are pleased to term murder itself.” 

“ Change for Victoria,” interposed the voice of the guard, whose 
ear caught the last word, uttered as it was j^ith meaningful em- 
phasis.” 

AV-hile the pretty pair were thus discussing the philosophy of sin, 
their victim lay between life and death, for the nonce without a doc- 
tor and without a nurse. Actuated by a strong sense of duty, and 
where right appeared right to him he scorned consequences with 
the chivalry of one of Arthur’s knights. Sir Kobert tooK his station 
by Plantagenet’s bedside, and remained there with all the zeal of a 
Bister of St. Vincent of Paul, until the special train he had char- 
tered brought down Dr. Shadfort and Nurse Pratling. 

The former, to his intense relief, took a hopeful view of the case, 
and to Sir Robert’s hint that it had been mismanaged by Dr. Lem- 
bic, gave an emphatic, nay, more, a stern denial. Indeed, he 
avowed that the crisis was over, and that the very circumstances of 
the patient’s having surmounted it must be attributed to Dr. Lem- 
bic’s skill and accurate diagnosis. 

Sir Robert felt the awkwardness of the situation, but he did not 
care to contend with medical authority, still less to show his hand. 
All he urged was that Dr. Shadfort would be so good as to see the 
patient through. 

” But he is through,” was Dr. Shadfort’s reply. “ All you have 
to guard against is a relapse, and that is a contingency 1 do not an- 
ticipate;” at which utterance the baronet’s face displayed an almost 
ridiculous expression of puzzlement. Clearl}’-, he was skeptical to 
Dr. Shadfort’s verdict being veiified by the result. 

Twenty-two odd years had metamorphosed Mrs. Pratling from a 
nipping, middle-aged into a frosty old w'oman. AVhite hair, how- 
ever, and a slight loss of adipose tissue had not changed her mental 
faculties. She was the same shrewd, managing, self-conscious body 
that we remember of old, with a keen eye to business, and, under 
her benevolence for others, a wholesome regard for the interests of 
Number One. 

” Which, Sir Robert,” she remarked, ” fever nursing’s not much 
in my line, in general, 1 prefer the monthly business, when it’s a 
lady. But 1 wouldn't go to refuse you. Sir Robert. Not me, arter 
the kindne^ you show^ me in days gone by.” 

And so Nurse Pratling assumed the function of ministering angel 
to the big man, w^hom she remembered w^ell as a mite of a baby, 
and she did her duty like an intelligent woman to whom long ex- 
perience had rendered every obstacle easy to surmount. 

The following morning, as Sir Robert was writing his usual bud- 
get in the library — one of the uglier accidents of exalted social posi- 
tion is a mass of superfluous correspondence — a knock at the door 
announced Mrs. Hester Mazebrook. 

” Er — ah, Mazebrook; I’m er — ah, very busy! What is it?” 

” It’s only this yere, Sir Robert-— a pocketbook as Dr. Lembic left 
in his bedroom afore he went away last night. 1 thought it betterer. 


UXDKlt WHICH Kixn? 77 

Sir Robert, to put it in your ’and clirecl. 'Tain’t my business, Sir 
Robert.” " 

” Why this behawdef, my good Mazebrook? 1—1 don’t under- 
stand! Oh, 1 see. Dr. Lenibic’s pockethook. Er— ah, quite right. 
That will do, 1 will forward it in due course to Dr. Lembic. Much 
obliged to 3 'ou.” 

Mrs. jMazebrook, however, instead of going as her superior had 
more than once hinted, stood there reddening and awkward, as 
though she had something on the tip of her tongue, which, come 
what may, must be uttered. Seldom had the quiet, retiring speci- 
men of femininity presented so abnormal an appearance to her mas- 
ter’s eye. 

Sir Robert walked to the window agitated. 

Er — ah, MazebrooK, 1 really am very busy. I’ve a lot of most 
important letters to write. Er — ah, what do you want, my good 
woman? Can’t you speak?” 

‘‘ Well, Sir Robert, I own 1 done wrong. Sir Robert. That 1 does, 
and perhaps if I’d got to do it again, Sir Robert, 1 shouldn’t do 
what 1 liave done. And yet I don’t quite know — ” 

There was a terrible mixture about this utterance which angered 
the impatient baronet and caused him to fire oft the monosyllable 
” Well!” as though it had been a percussion-cap. 

“ It were only cur’osity,” whimpered Hester, in a miserable tone. 

Sir Robert glanced at the tat, leathern pockelbook on the table 
before him, then at his faithful housekeeper. That was enough. 
His quick perception revealed the rest without another word being 
uttered, and his look in consequence allered from impatience to 
pain, not unmingled with horror and dismay. 

‘‘ 1 done wrong,” reiterated Hester, ” 1 knows 1 have; but havin’ 
so done it 1 feels it’s a dooty I owes to ^mu. Sir Robert, as has been 
my kind friend and benefactor, to ast you to open that there pocket- 
book and judge of its contents for jmurself.” 

Sir Robert walked to the window, agitated— perhaps terrified. 

” That will do, Mazebrook. You may leave the room.” 

‘‘Yes, Sir Robert.” 

‘‘ Or stop. Does anybody know anything about the coiltents of 
this except yourself? Tell me the truth, 1 beg you, Mazebrook.” 

” Only, Nurse JPratling, Sir Robert.” 

‘‘Ha! How did she come to know anything about it?” 

‘‘ Well, Sir Robert, if you’d oblige me by opening that there 
pockelbook and lookin’ at what’s inside of it, you would not go to 
blame me for asking nurse what I oughter do. It’s a part of my 
dooty, as my lady told me, whenever anybody as is a visitor leaves, 
to go r*und arterwards and see whether there’s anything belongin’ 
to "’um lying about, and I maaes it a rule. Sir Robert, so to do. 
Consequently, when Dr. Lembic went away to London with Master 
Errol that sudden and unexpected last night, 1 locked the door of 
his bedroom, and after breakfast this morning 1 had a hunt round. 
That’s how I found this yere gentleman’s pocket-book. Sir Robert; 
and when I commenced to hopen it 1 were that astonished I didn’t 
know what was my dooty— i didn’t. It’s all the cur’osity. Sir Rob- 
ert, as gets us women into mischief. Look at Eve with that theie 
happle. Couldn’t bring ’ersell to leave it alone, must take a bite. 


78 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


Justjhesamealonj^of 1. If you believe me, 1 held that there pocket- 
book in my ’and for the matter of a minit. Then 1 says to myself, 
‘ Shall 1?’ 1 says. And do it 1 did; but perhaps it may be as well, 
for it’s but right. Sir Robert, as you should be informed in regard 
of the character of them as you harbors in your house, and toward 
whom you extends your lib’ral hospitality.” 

If Sir Robert had not been nonplussed as to what coarse to pur- 
sue, he would have cut short the prolix utterance of a woman who, 
” in virtue of her high office in the Court,” considered it proper to 
be ponderous. As it was, she ran down, like a clock, slowly, and 
even then her master seemed irresolute; at last he said, with an air 
of forced indifference, ‘‘1 don’t feel quite certain as to whether 1 
ought to touch Dr. Lembic’s pocRet-book, or whether, indeed, it 
would be honorable on my part to ascertain its contents. 1 can, 
from my owm personal knowledge, form a guess as regards the nat- 
ure of the documents to which you refer; they certainly possess an 
interest for me. But, Mazebrook, 1 don’t see my way clear. Leave 
the pocket-book for the present with me. It may be wanted sooner 
or later. You have done your duty, though in future you must 
avoid prying into the secrets of other people. That will do.” 

Mrs. Mazebrook was about to retire, when Sir Robert bade her 
te[l one of the grooms that he would be wanted to go to Maidstone. 
With that message siie left her master’s presence. 

As soon as she was gone. Sir Robert seized the pocket-book and 
locked it up in his secret drawer. Then he sat down and wrote as 
follows: 

“ To Mr. Inspector Granden, Maidstone. 

“ Marmyon Court, December, 18—. 

“ Dear Sir,— We do not, on reconsideration, desire to press the 
charge against Robert Hodge; in fact he has been sufficiently pun- 
ished by the amount of incarceration he has already endured. 
Under the circumstances you will please obtain his release, and, if 
necessary, 1 will be bail for his appearance it called for by the 
Bench. Be good enough to give him the sovereign (£1) which 1 
herewith send by bearer, and request him to call on me without 
delay. Faithfully yours, 

“ Robert Marmyon.” 

“ There,” soliloquized Sii’ Robert, ” I have exhibited the leniency 
which 1 am certain Planny would wish me to display were he, poor 
fellow, in a condition to give an opinion. And now lor just one 
word with Nurse Pratliug.” 

Accordingly, having rung for the groom and despatched him 
with the letter and the sovereign to Inspector Granden, he sum- 
moned nurse to a private confab. 

That conscientious woman could not leave her patient for lonsr, 
nevertheless she was not sorry for a talk with Sir Robert. Talks of 
that kind with people of Sir Robert’s sort commonly germinate into 
tips, and this good soul, like most people when they arrive at the 
sere and yellow epoch of existence, was deaily fond of lucre. 

“ How do, nurse? Sit down a minute, will you? Odd this about 
these promissory notes in Dr. Lembic’s note-book?” 


79 


UNDER WHICH KIND? 

“ Wery,” responded nurse, dryly. 

“ You will please say uotliing about it! Y’ou understand me?’' 

“ Mummerer nor a church mouse. Sir Robert.” 

” That’s light. And about Planny. Going on well?” 

“ Couldn’t be better, so the doctor say.” 

‘‘ Big man he’s grown, hasn’t he?” 

” That he have. He weren’t such a monstrous baby! When 1 
went to compare him with Missus Hodge’s little un, though they 
was alike in the eyes and ears he were the littler of the two, par- 
tickler in the matter ot bones; and he had a sort of a thickening ot 
the throat, he had, which old Sir Marshall Midwinter spoke to me 
about, but that he’ve outgrown altogether. Likewise, he had the 
prettiest little toot as ever 1 seed m a baby, and 1 recollects Hester, 
the maid, as is now promoted to be ’ousekeener, she told me that 
Lady Marmyon’s foot is as beautiful as her hands is, and fit for a 
sculptor. But that, too, 1 sees he's out-growed, for his feet has 
twisted toes, and is strong and hugly. Couldn’t have believed it.” 

” Age makes a difference,” responded Sir Robert, dryly. “ We 
all change, Mrs. Pratling,” with a histrionic sigh. 

” ’Taint often a child as is born with small bones develops big 
uns, and with little feet huge uns, and with a sort of goiterish 
throat a ordinary un. That’s what 1 calls a freak of nature. Sir 
Robert. Row your bones is* small, and I’ll warrant you was a 
small-boned baby; and you’ve got, too, a little foot and hand, and 
a thickish throat — not goiterish. Sir Robert, but what they calls in 
the theayters ‘ colossal.’ ” 

” Well,” remarked the baronet, ” Planny is what he is, and if we 
can nurse him to convalescence that will be all 1 shall ask. Y’ou 
may rely upon me ^Iso, Mrs. Pratling, to be exceptional!}^ liberal. 
Y"ou are indeed engaged on a duty of prime importance in every 
w ay. Remember that ! ’ 

” 1 was about to ask a favor. Sir Robert. There’s a widder 
’oman from the village of the name of Gipps, as have come and 
ofiered to help nurse. Row 1 bain’t so young as 1 used to was, and 
I wants a little sleep at times, so, it you’ve no objections, Mrs. 
Gipps might watch while 1 gets forty winks. I’d rather trust to an 
experienced woman, though she be oldish, than to the chits of girls 
you’ve got here for housemaids. Ten to one they’d doze off as soon 
as you would be asleep, and then I would not be answerable for 
what might happen. He must be watclied— carefully.” 

Sir Robert had no objection, so nurse returned to the sick-room, 
and then he opened his secret drawer, and examined I)r, Lembic’s 
pocket-book inquisitively. It contained not only ten promissory 
notes of the value ot £5,000 apiece, diawn in his favor by Eriol, 
but also a number of medical receipts. The significance of these 
was lost upon him, tor they were scribbled in the abbreviated Latin, 
which doctors affect, but he judged that they might have_some 
bearing on typhoid, and resolved to treasure them. He had, in 
fact, after a vain attempt to decipher medical romany, just replaced 
the pocket-book in his drawer when Lady Marmyon entered with a 
perturbed face. 

” What has Errol done?” she asked, peremptorily. ” The second 


80 XmBER WHICH KIXG? 

post is just in, and 1 have a letter from the poor boy imploring me 
to intercede for him with you.” 

“ Don’t ask me,” was her husband’s reply. 

“Robert!” 

“ 1 repeat — don’t nsk. Errol needs no intercession. The time 
may come when 1 may be able to forget. But not yet.” 

“You surprise, you pain me, Robert.” 

“ 1 wished to save you pain, so 1 kept silence. Suffer me not to 
break that seal— just yet. 1 will reply to Errol.” 


CI-IAPTER X. 

ENTREATY. 

The groom drove a fast dog-cart to Maidstone, a good fifteen 
miles, delivered a letter to the inspector, and in a trice Robert Hodge 
was liberated from durance vile. When, however, the man offered 
him the sovereign and gave him Sir Robert’s mandate to come to 
the Court forthwith, the eye of the young laborer flashed fire, and 
he responded, quietly, “You may tell your master that 1 won’t 
touch hi&gold) and that I don’t obey his orders. Lucky for him if 
1 don’t bring an action for false imprisonment, or malicious prosecu- 
tion, or something.” 

“ If 1 was you,” answered the groom, “ 1 would not be a ass. A 
quid’s a quid, whoseever money it is. Take it and ride back in my 
trap. Sir Robert don’t mean bad by you.” 

“No. 1 shall walk.” 

And so with but a tew shillings in his pocket this proud-spirited 
young fellow started to trudge afoot. 

He ariived at the Marmyon Arms after dark, tired and sulky. 
From Belinda he learned that Plantagenet Marmyon remained in a 
critical state, and that Mrs. Gipps had\oluuteered— at Mrs. Hodge’s 
earnest request— to help to nurse him. He further was acquainted 
with a fact which the groom did not impart, viz., the sudden dis- 
appearance of Errol Marmyon and Dr. Lembic. Having duly 
digested these data and a rough supper provided by Belinda in the 
absence of her mother, who had gone up to the Court to pay Mrs. 
Mazebrook an evening call and learn the latest bulletin, he went to 
bed and to sleep. Maidstone, jail does not provide its occupants 
with superfluous luxuries, and Robert Hodge had girded against the 
continement and regulations like a caged eagle, to such an extent 
that he had not been able while behind the bars either to sleep or to 
cat. A little more of it and be would have been in hospital. 

On the monow he rose considerably later than the lark, being 
abnormally weary, owing to the discipline of a prison, and a long 
walk on the top of it. Love bore him on her wings swiftly to Polly 
Williams. Having resolved seriously to try his fortune in the 
United States, he wished to extract an assurance frum her that she 
would iollow when he had made tor her a home across the Atlantic, 
a result obtainable, according to his calculations, in a few months at 
the outside. ^ 

AYhilg he was tfius agreeably engaged with his sweetheart, there 


UNDEK WHICH KIKG? 


81 


was being enacted ratber a scene at the Marmyon Arms. Widow 
Gipps toddled down the first thing in the capacity which, to some 
natures, is almost pleasurable on account ot the tactitious impor- 
tance it gives, viz,, as the bearer of bad news. 

Plantagenet had a relapse. 

That was indeed a sensation sufficiently thrilling. It sent Mrs. 
Hodge at nine o’clock in the morning straight to the gin bottle. It 
evidently upset Mrs. Gipps, who required a similar and sympathetic 
gratification. It set the wires flying, iind caused Sir Robert to pace 
the library like a leopard in a cage. Lady Marmyon tried to hatch 
up a tear, but hardly succeeded; indeed, she wrote by stealth to her 
favorite Errol to assure him that nothing he could ever do would 
change her maternal heart, and that in all likelihood he would be- 
come within a very few hours the heir. And when at last Dr., 
Shadfort arrived from town and delivered himself enigmatically 
and oracularly, but by no means in the same ternis as b^efore, the 
general feeling became intense. 

Dr. Shadfort could not remain all day with the patient. A duke 
was lying quite as ill in Grosvenor Square, and he could not afford 
to offend strawberry leaves, even though Plantagenet were to lose 
his life in consequence. He remained, however, until after lunch- 
eon, and then Sir Robert drove with him in the brougham to the 
station in order to hear the last word. Up to yesterday Sir Robert 
had not been devotedly attached to Plantagenet, and indeed had 
preferred Errol, as being in all respects — as he put it— more of a 
jMarmyon. Nevertheless, there had been some unity ot sentiment 
between the father and his elder son— Plautagenet’s manliness had 
throughout commanded his respect. Now, however, that he w^as 
horror-stricken at Errol’s villainy, his feelings had become intensi- 
fied. He earnestly hoped and prayed that Plantagenet might be 
spared, tor in him, at all events, the’name of Marmyon would suffer 
no dishonor, whejfCas, if Errol became the representative ot the fam- 
ily, he knew not what to expect. Pride, in short, rendered Sir Robert 
solicitous in the extreme, and he trembled to think that another turn 
of this typhoid tide might not only rob him of Plantagenet, but 
further make Errol his heir. 

At the station he extracted a pledge frora Dr. Shadfort to return 
in the next twelve hours, chartering a special train, if necessary, 
and then he bade that eminent physician a sad farew^ell, in his heart 
believing that wlien he arrived after midnight it would be too late. 

As the brougham passed through the village he espied the familiar 
figure of Robert Hodge in close converse with Polly Williams. At 
once an impulse caused him to stop, alight, and walk toward the 
young man, who, in lieu of touching his hat, in accordance with 
the rigid etiquette of Marmyon village, stared his feudal lord straight 
in the face; not insolently— far from it— but with an air of dislike, 
injury, and pain. 

“Robert,” said the baronet, with strong emotion, “1 have um 
wittingly done you wrong. Forgive me. 1 am indeed sorry. ” 

And he held out his hand. 

Robert Hodge possessed a vein of eccentricity, and he was just 
then smarting- under the indignity of an imprisonment which he re- 
garded as a wanton return of evil ior his good; but this greeting 


82 UOTER WHICH KIKC? 

was so unlike the ordinary superbity ot Sir Robert that it simply 
staggered him. 

He took the baronet’s hand limply, and replied jocularly, 

“ Right or wrong, Sir Robert, it makes no diSerence. I’ve had 
enough of this country, and us soon as may be shall be across the 
Atlantic. This is no place for a poor man— leastways for one of 
my sort.” 

Sir Robert looked him in the face, started, flushed, looked again, 
and responded, 

“ No, don’t go. You have already, though you know it not, 
earned a position here in your native country— a position, Robert, 
which will not be that of a poor man, that 1 promise you.” 

Robert Hodge lifted his large, poetic, hazel eyes, and returned the 
strange inquiring gaze of the baronet, whose manner struck him as 
being unaccountable. 

” L don’t want to be a publican,” he observed, assuming that Sir 
Robert had in contemplation seme such immoral reward for a serv- 
ice he was quite able to appreciate. 

” Of course you don’t. No man worth his salt ever did. No, 
I’ve better things in store for you than that; in fact you shall make 
your own bargain, and the chances are, whatever that bargain may 
be — for j’-ou are far too proud to be covetous— 1 shall treble it. You 
know why 1 am bound to you, Robert, but you do not know, you 
can not realize how deep is my sentiment of gratitude toward you, 
and intensely 1 regret the error into which 1 was inadvertently be- 
trayed.” 

There stood Sir Robert Marmyon almost a suppliant, and opposite 
hiin, with a strangely diffident expression, Robert Hodge, while in 
the immediate background was the lovely face and fairy figure of 
Polly Williams, posed in a listening attitude, indicative of the strong- 
est interest. 

‘‘You need not demean yourself to me. Sir Robert,” responded 
the young man. ‘‘ We are difierent, you and I; You are of the 
upper crust, 1 of the lower. Between us there is and can be no tie. 
We are as opposite as night and day or as summer and winter. All 
1 can answer you is, that 1 would rather go to a land where all are 
equal. I’m sick of inferiority. Heie a man ot my sort, wdth some 
ideas and a:spirations, is repressed, detested, sent to Maidstone jail. 
No; let me go to America; and if you feel yourself under an obli- 
gation to me— as, indeed, perhaps you are — pay my passage and that 
of my sweetheart here. We would rather go together than one after 
the other.” 

Sir Robert glanced round at the modest, blushing face of Polly, 
and smiled. This little ray ot sunlight gave the girl heart, and she 
joined in, as one who had a right to speak, in tremulous silvery ac- 
cents. 

” Do ’ee, Sir Robert, overpersuade him not to go to Ameriky. 1 
don’t w'ant to go all that way, and never see father and mother 
again. 1 be content, 1 be, with Kent.” 

‘‘ Y"ou hear, Robert,” urged the baronet; ‘‘ this good girl agrees 
with me that you would be better oft here. Besides which, Robert 
you and 1 belong to this old shire. We are the same breed. Look 
at us. W e are pretty much a match— the same height, the same 


USTDEK WHTCH KIKG? 


83 


build, the same color, and countenance. Why, 1 might be your 
elder brother. Come, your back’s up, and perhaps you’ve reason 
foi that on your side. But don’t be irreconcilable. That’s not the 
true Kentish temper. 1 am anxious not only to atone for the wrong 
done, but to earn your triendship, Robert.” 

Strong words for a proud man, and all the stronger for being so 
manifestly sincere. 

‘‘ Robert!” whispered Polly, coaxihgly catchins: his hand and en- 
forcing her plea by a gentle pressure. 

But Robert’s face hardened. He held his tongue for a brief min- 
ute, then he responded rather gawkily, “1 don’t think. with you, 
Bir Robert. I’m a Republican. 1 regard your class as hgurpers of 
what belongs to . us. You may tempt my girl, and she may get 
round me, but all your favors will never alter my mind. You, Sir 
Robert, are a man of the aristocracy, 1 am a man of the people.” 

Sir jRobert flushed — in vexation, ^rerhaps, rather than angpr. He 
knew, however, that he was answered, so he simply said, " Well, 
think it over. You are not off to America by the next mail, 1 hope. 
Come to the Court whenever you will, and brin^ your sweetheart 
loo. Y^ou will find a warmer welcome than you expect, and though 
1 am a Royalist and you are a Republican, we need not' quarrel. 
Good-day to you both!” And with dignity Sir Robert re-entered 
his brougham and drove to the Court. 

“ Well,” protested Polly to her lover, ” you be a awkward-tem- 
pered chap. What made ’ee meet the squire so (wiss-crossedly ? Oh, 
you silly you.” 

1 don’t know,” smiled Robert, proudly. ’Tis, 1 suppose, be- 
cause 1 resent his patronage worse than his persecution.” 

” If you loved me true,” she muttered, ” you’d think of me and 
my wishes, Robert.” And she looked her words, 

” 1 do love you,” he answered, “ and 1 expect you for that very 
reason to trust me implicitly, ’Twould be better tar for us two to 
be poor in the land of the free than rich and under the thumb of 
that despot. Can’t you see this?” 

” Not me. If the land of the free is the t’other side of the world, 
and I’m to be poor there, away from eveiy one, 1 certainly should 
prefer remaining where 1 am, Robert.” 

‘‘You can do so.” This with a sort of sneer rather hard to bear. 

” Robert, what do you meau?” 

” Why, that 1 can go alone if you won’t go with me.” 

” You intend to go, then— to reject Sir Robert’s offer?” 

“Yes.” 

” Then Robert you are hard, cruel, obstinate. Surely you ought 
to wish to make your sweetheart happy.” 

” My mind’s made up,” he said, doggedly. 

” Suppose 1 were to make up mine?” 

‘‘ 11 you mean, Polly, to throw me over. I’ll give you as good as 
you give me. Y’ou must do ifs you will.” 

” Well, Robert, let us stop here.” 

“Not we. One goes; the other can go or stay.* That is my final 
decision. Sir Robert could not bribe me to alter it, neither shall 
you tempt me. I’ve been degraded by that jail, and 1 hate a land 
which has treated me, though for a tew hours only, as a felon. Now 


84 


TINDER WHICH KTNCt? 

3'^ou know why 1 won’t stop, why 1 must go to America. 1 want 
to wash my hands of England, and become a citizen of some country 
where 1 shall not be at the mercy of a Sir Robert Marmyon.” 

“ There, there,” cried Polly, ‘‘ you go and tliink it over. Your 
temper drives you to- day, perhaps your heart may lead you to- 
morrow. Good-by. Mother wants me. 

And the prett}’^ girl tripped away in haste, avoiding thereby an 
issue which was evidently traugnt with peril to her peace of mind. 

-st -5^ -jf * -je- * 

Dr. Shadfort came down, in accordance with his promise, by 
special train, arriving at Marmyon a little after one o’clock in the 
morning. Sir Robert was in the dining-room to receive him and 
oiler refreshments, and after a hurried glass of wine the doctor went 
up to the sick-room. A brief examination, coupled with the state- 
ment ot Nurse Pratling, convinced him that there was no improve- 
ment, and in typhoid not to go forward is to go backward. In fact 
he saw a slight change for the worse, and said as much, with the 
strict candor which Sir Robert had implored him to use in speaking 
of the case— a candor almost unprofessional. 

‘‘it is.” he remarked, ” quite the most peculiar development of 
typhoid fever that 1 ever remember to have witnessed. -Your son, 
Sir Robert, is a young man of gigantic muscular power, and clearly 
possesses an equine constitution; yet he has passed through the crisis 
only to experience a damaging relapse. There is hope, yet abun- 
dant cause for the i’ravest anxiety. There is only one case in my 
recollection that 1 could call parallel to this, and that was the case 
of a navvy, and he polled through eventually; but then your son, 
though an athlete and all that kind of thing, is not a navvy. It is a 
battle between nature and poison.” 

And so the long hours of the night wore away. Dr. Shadfort get- 
ting a wink of sleep on the sofa, and the morning dawned upon the 
sick man and the watchers. Still there was no improvement, and 
consequent upon no advance a perceptible increment of weakness. 
The doctor evidently was anxious, yet he wished to get back to his 
duke, and fidgeted about the hours of the trains till Sir Robert felt 
almost angry. Surely his son and heir was ot as much iniportance 
as any individual in the kingdom— at all events, outside the ranks 
of royalty. 

It was at breakfast-time that a telegram arrived for Dr. Shadfort. 
He was sipping meditatively a cup of coftee, and read the missive 
almost indifferently. Then he threw it across to Sir Robert. It 
ran thus : 

” From Lemhic, Vxford, to Shciilfort^ Marmyon. 

” See in to-day’s papers relapse of patient. If Sir Robert will 
give you prescription marked B in pocket book, will save him.” 

” What does that mean?” inquired the doctor, carelessly. 

” 1 can guess,” ^replied the baronet; ‘‘ but, my dear doctor, prom- 
ise me this, that you will not use Dembic’s prescription unless it 
commends itself to you as an impartial man. 1 have no faith in Dr. 
Lemhic.” 

” And 1 have,” responded Dr. Shadfort, dryly. 


UNDER WHTCn KING? 85 

Sir Robert left the room, and after five minutes absence returned 
with a, prescription marked B, which he handed, with an inguiiing 
air in his lace, for the inspection of tfie doctor, 

“ Why,” exclaimed Dr. Sliadfort, ” this is an antidote. Some mis- 
take, I expect. However, it can do no harm. \ou may try it or 
not, as 5'ou will. Any local chemist can make it up. Perhaps 
Lembic had a reason for it; perhaps he may have hazarded an ex- 
periment. He is fond of treating patients as subjects— all physiolo- 
gists are so.” 

‘‘ Aes,” replied Sir Robert. “ Then it can do no harm, and it is 
an antidote; so that if he has been wrongly treated before you arrived, 
it may correct the wrong? Is that it?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then 1 shall, on my own authority, make the experiment. ” 

“Do so, and on my return from town 1 shall be able to apprise 
you of the result. Expect me by eight at the latest.” 

And so Dr. Shadfort once more slipped away to kill or cure his 
moribund strawberry-leaves, and Mrs. Gipps, who had been up all 
night, and was inwardly convinced that the patient w^as doomed, 
slipped on her bonnet and shuwl, and toddled feebly as far as the 
Marmyon Arms to tell his foster-mother the evil tidings. 

Mrs. Martha Hodge was sober, quiet, and, so far as her brain could 
be, collected. She said, in response to Mrs, Gipps, “Yes, I’ve 
been expectin’ of it, and I’ve made up my mind now what to do. 
1 shall walk up to the Court, and before the poor'boy’s breath is out 
of his blessed body I shall say that wJiich will surprise Sir Robert 
Marmyon, and my lady, and JVIaster Errol, and a few others. My 
motto is, ‘ While there is hope there is life, and when hope is over, 
life’s a question of hours.’ There ain’t no time to lose, Mrs. Gipps. 
1 must speak; now or be forever silent, and speak 1 will. iMy con- 
science drives me to do it, and if it didn’t I’ve a big score to settle 
with that there murrlerine: derhon. Master Errol, and that accomplice 
of his. Doctor What’s-his-name.” 


CHAPTER XT. 

THE SPORT, OF TORTURE. 

Errol returned with Dr. Lembic to Oxford. He had, so far as 
residence goes, already kept his terms, though he had not taken his 
degree, and indeed expected to obtain the highest honors in natural 
science, in consequence of his studies in that department of knowl- 
edge and the smattering of physiology he had picked up by 
association with Dr. Lembic. At the present moment, being ostra- 
cized from his home, he. knew of no more pleasant place of residence 
than the University City, and no more harmonious spirit wherewith 
to chum than the cold-blooded scientist, who would have removed 
for him the one obstacle that lay across his path had it been feasible. 
But though miles away from Marmyon Court, the guilty conscience 
or nervous apprehension of Errol caused him to watch every post and 
every paragraph in the society papers. He had arranged hurrie»ily 
with the groom to wire him the condition of Plantagenet when any 


86 


UNDER WHICH KINO? 

change occurred, and it was a wire announcing the relapse that caused 
him to seek the laboratory ot Dr. Lembic late at night, and in a mis- 
erable frame of mind. 

He found that worthy disciple of Schiff and Paul Beit with a big 
spaniel-dog before him. I'he animal was of the female variety, 
having lately had a litter of pups, and he was engaged leisur^ in 
dissecting its mammas, in callous indiflerence to the animal’s hioeous 
moans. By his side the blind puppies were croaking for their moth- 
er’s milk, to the professor’s intense amusement, while the tortured 
parent’s agony was intensified by her appreciation ot the hunger of 
her little ones. 

“ Bother you, Marmyon!” observed the doctor. “ You just in- 
terrupted a most delicate experiment. 1 shall have to use another 
bitch for the pifrpose, and this one happens to be abnormally well- 
developed. Really, my dear fellow, you should be more consider- 
ate, and not startle an operator by bursting into his sanctum in that 
sudden way!” 

Whatever interfered between this inquisitor and his victim was a 
crime. 

‘‘ I’m very, very sorry,” replied Errol, who combined the soul of 
a blackguard with the manner of a courtier. ” But you must not 
blame me in this instance. My business would not keep, in spite of 
the best subjects that ever were created to amuse or instruct physi- 
ologists. Fact is, Plantagenet’s had a relapse.” 

” Well, my dear sir, what of that? You’ve no cause to grumblo, 
surely? If Plautagenet Marmyon goes the way ot all flesh, then 
Errol will become monarch, sooner or later, of that family princi- 
pality of yours down in Kent. Upon my honor, my very dear 
friend, i congratulate you.” 

But this species of maumise plaisanterie did not quite assimilate 
with Errol’s mood at the moment. Dr. Lembic might be cool and 
confident, prepared to brazen out words and actions which, in the 
young man’s opinion, carried on their face condemnation. But he, 
knowing as he did his father’s temper, alive also to the alarming 
truth that somebody, he knew not w’ho, was in the secret, and might 
accuse him should the tragedy they had plotted end fatally, could 
not regard the subject thus jauntily. Moreover, though he hated 
his brother, and coveted his inheritance intensely, his internal sense 
of right, which, though enfeebled, was not quite obliterated, caused 
him to crave earnestly that the plot might not succeed. Indeed, 
coward as he was, his mouth twitched, his cheek was hectic, his eye 
restless, and his hand tremulous. 

“ Wait a minute,” piysued Dr. Lembic, in a tone of entreaty, 
‘‘ until I’ve removed this mamma. 1 can’t do two things at once— 
dissect this beautiful subject and chatter about your brother. Bo.” 

Errol stamped his foot in impatience on the floor, and then per- 
ceiving the litter ot six pups, stooped and picked up one of them, 
holding it to the light, while the mother for the nonce must almost 
have forgotten the torture she was suffering; for the poor creature 
strained her head to watch what this demon would do with her baby. 

Miserable victim! Poor loving creature or a good God, she had 
indeed fallen into the nethermost hell when she was exchanged by 
the daughter of a starving blind beggar tor a few shillings, being 


UNDER AYniCH KING? 87 

no longer of any use for the purposes of mendicancy on account of 
her small family. 

Errol felt the pup all over. Then, remarking casually, “It’s 
mere gristle, after all,” he snatched up a lancet and a pair of pincers, 
laid the pup on the edge of the torture trough, and made what is 
technically termed a “ window ” in its side. — that is to say, he flayed 
away a square of skin, broke two of the ribs and thus obtained a 
view of the young thing’s internal mechanism. 

The puppy’s shrill shrieK evidently caused intense suffering to 
the mother; and when Errol, in derision, held iis bleeding body 
close to that mother’s face, a tear— yes, a tear — bedewed the poor 
do^s face, a circumstance that did not fail to attract the attention 
of Dr. Lembic. 

“ Upon my honor,” exqlaimed he, enthusiastically, “ this is affect- 
ing. Our poor old lady here reminds me of the women at the 
Lyceum when Irving is playing Charles the First. Eeally, really, 
Mrs. Spaniel, you are quite too emotional. 'When I’ve done with 
your mamm<B, my dear, 1 will investigate the quality of your lachry- 
matory glands.” 

“ I wish to goodness,” grumbled Errol, “ you’d listen to me tor 
five consecutive minutes. 1 did not come here to play with dogs,” 
throwing the mangled pup into a corner to die of slow agony, as 
best it might. “ I've come on serious business; so do attend, doc- 
tor, and oblige me.” 

“Ugh!” sighed the physiologist; “ it’s just like my Mck. When- 
ever 1 get a really superlative subject, 1 am certain to be interrupt- 
ed. Well, go on; you’ve spoiled my fun.” 

“ This is what 1 have to say,” observed Errol; for the doctor, 
leaving his subject to drip blood into the trough, had washed his 
hands and lit a cigar with the view of giving his attention to the 
matter in hand.’ “ Planny is going, that> clear. I’ve a wire 
that puls beyond doubt that his relapse is serious and has quite 
checkmated Dr. Shadf ort, who was at first cock-sure about the case. 
Now if, as appears all but certain, Planny goes, what is our posi- 
tion?” 

“ Mine,” answered the doctor, fixing his eye on the mutilated and 
living spaniel over the torture-trough with intense and gloating sat- 
isfaction — “mine, 1 take it, is unaltered. So far as you are con- 
cerned, 1 shall expect you to keep to your bargain.” 

“Tut, tut! 1 don't mean that. 1 mean, what is our position 
legally — in the e 3 'e of the law of England?” 

“1 don’t understand. Who is going to accuse me of causing 
Plantagenet to contract typhoid? You can’t, for you don’t know 
whether I w'as the cause, however much you may suspect me. 
Shadfort can’t, for he did not enter upon the case till the crisis. 
Pray, who is my accuser? Answer me that, my friend?” 

“ 1 wish 1 knew. If 1 did know, if 1 could form a surmise, 1 
might easily square him or her, for money will do anything and 
everything. But 1 don’t. That’s the curse of it.” 

“ And, Iht ref ore. don’t worry!” ’ 

“ And therefore, ‘SO you would argue, play the part of the ostrich. 
No, Dr. Lembic, not for you or all the world. My father is just 
the man, from a mistaken sense of honor, to denounce us as the 


88 


FIS'DEH TVHICH KIls'G?; 


slayers of his first-born; but even if pride, as you imagine, should 
put a seal on his lips, there remains the unknown and unsuspected 
witness, the witness who revealed to my father all about the promis- 
sory notes, all— ” 

“ By the bye,” interposed Dr, Lembic, ” I did an amazingly stupid 
thing: 1 left behind at Marmyon my pocket-book containing those very 
promissory notes — at least, such is my impression. 1 may, of course, 
have mislaid them in the train or somewhere else, but 1 think not. For 
safety’s sake, 1 placed the pocket-book in an old oak cabinet on the 
cliiffonmer of the bedroom 1 occupied atMarmyonCouit, and 1 have 
no recollection of removing it. You see, we were ordered oft the 
premises in such double-quick time that 1 not unnaturally forgot all 
about it. What had 1 better do? Can you recover it, or shall 1 
write and demand it formally of your father?” 

Errol could not answer this, but he rejoined, wth a look of alarm, 
“ Why, doctor, that — that surely is corroborative evidence against 
us bolli. Dauming evidence, 1 might call it.” 

“Faugh! 1 repeat, Errol, you are morbidly apprehensive. What 
can they bring in against me, still less against you? They can 
allege that I engaged to communicate typhoid to your brother. 
That is not enough. Let them prove that 1 have done so.” 

“ But, doctor, two and two make four.” 

“ Not in court; not with a jury; not with a judge. You can’t 
hang a man lor covenanting to murder you, you can only hang him 
if you prove *he did murder. Here the chief link in the chain is 
missing, and can never be supplied.” 

“ And you are prepared to risk the chance of being gibbeted, of 
its being demonsirated conclusively that there is a moral certainty 
of your being the actual cause of a man’s death, and that, too, in 
consideration of a bribe of fifty thousand pounds.^” 

“ You speak, plainl^i^ Errol,” retorted Dr. Lembic, dryly. 

“ It’s the right time for plain speech,” groaned Errol, in reply. 

Dr. Lembic walked across to tlte spaniel mec'itatively. and began 
to examine the corpse he had been so enjoyably dissecting ever 
since he had swallowed Ids dinner. 

“ This brute,” he observed, “ will simply cheat the de^il of his 
due it she remains crucified any longer, and I shall want her to- 
morrow, and the next day, too, if she can be got to last out. Here, 
my dear fellow, just help me to release her, and then we will go 
upstairs and have a cup of coffee and a glass of liqueur. 1 think I 
know how to act so as to save lids precious Planuy of yours, and 
avoid all unpleasantness, not to say risk. So, make your mind 
easy; now.” 

Errol ground his teeth at the interruption to theib conversation. 
But Dr. Lembic was one of those men who coolly take their own 
course, and persist in meeting your wishes on their own lipes, not 
on yours. Hence there was no alternative but to obey his behests. 

“ Is slie vicious?” asked Errol, as he prepared to remove the gag 
f rom the dog’s mouth, having previously loosened the straps that 
held her. 

“ Not one little bit. A sweet-tempered brute that, before she took 
it into her foolish head to add to the population; used to collect the 
blind fellow’s coppers, and lead him about the streets. The man 


89 


UKDER WHICH KIls^G? 

was fond of her, too, and they had to tell him a taradiddle about 
tiuding her a comfortable home in a genilenian’s fajnily before he'd 
part with hei at all. Really the amount of driveling sentiinenlalily 
one meets with at every turn is simply nauseating. Whoa! steady, 
my lass! don’t bite, whatever you do. There, now you’re free, and 
can enjoy your saucer of inillL Poor old girl!” patting her back 
gently as he placed her on the tioor. You shall have some more 
knife to-morrow!” And he laughed loud, as though he heartily 
relished his own brutal wit. 

The poor, dazed, smarting, aching thing, that had been all its lit- 
tle life so true and noble a friend of our bestial species, no sooner 
was it released from its bands and gag than its first thought was of 
its little ones. With a strange, agonized hollow croon in its throat 
it staggered to the corner where they were huddled together in ter- 
ror around their bleeding and dying brother and began to lick, not 
its own reeking side and bared breasts, but the cruel wounds of its 
offspring, while the poor hungry pups crowded raund tbeir mother 
and inflicted fresh tortures upon her in seeking for the teats and 
breasts that had been cut away recklessly and ruthlessly for the 
amusement of a monster. 

” By Jove!” roared Dr. Lembic, who had been again washing 
his hands, ala Pilate, “look at those little beggars! Tlmir noses 
are red with the old woman’s blood. Fine moral that. I’ve 
known in this University certain grown-up babies thus to absorb 
their mother’s life-blood, that is, her little money. Pshaw! dogs 
and men, puppies and undergrads, it’s all the same. We worship 
the almighty ‘ self.’ That is our one god, ” 

” But the mother don’t seem selfish,” remarked Errol. 

“ Well, no. Mothers are not so as a rule, when their babies are 
concerned, but it’s all an illusion. They cannot shake oft the idea 
that the brats are part of themselves. It’s merely a form of self- 
love, is this much vaunted natural affection. However, not to 
moralize overmuch, let us ascend to the uppej regions.” 

Dr. Lembic, though not a rich man, was by no means a poor 
man. He held several appointments of academical character which 
yielded him an ample income for a bachelor, and enabled him also 
to be prodigal of the animals wdiom he “used” in his private 
laboratory. Hence his home was handsome, though not spacious, 
and well, though not sumptuously, appointed. The trade of torture 
yielded sufficient profit to make life easy, albeit it slopped short of 
luxury. A smart man-servant brought some excellent coffee, plus 
the Oxonian adjunct of anchovy toast, and rvith it a choice of white 
curagoa or noyau, nectar fit for Mephistopheles. 

” Row,” said he, lolling in his cozy arm-chair, ‘‘ to revert to this 
rather unpleasant topic. ‘ I can form an accui'ate notion of wffiat is 
retarding your brother’s recovery. Before 1 left 1 administered a 
formula, which 1 was fully aware'would enable a man of his con- 
stutional tcmghness to surmount the crisis, for 1 may tell you that 
the form of typhoid fever proved to be— contrary to my expectations, 
1 own— the reverse of virulent. That formula ought to have been 
repeated. If it were repeated 1 am morally certain that even now his 
great strength would conquer the disease. Shadfort woiikl prescribe 
it if he guessed what was the matter.” 


90 


UNDEE WHICH KING? 


“ Why not wire this formula — at once?’' 

“Gently, gently, not so fast. 1 hesitate to interfere with Shad- 
loit, and indeed to do so, under the peculiar circumstances of the 
case, would perhaps create a bad impression. But there is no reason 
why you should not wire to Sir llobert, and it happens that by this 
expedient we shall learn where the missing pocket-book really is. I 
mean whether it was left behind at Marmyon, or whether it was 
ilropped accidentally in some railway-carriage, or on the platform of 
one of the stations. Listen, the formula to which 1 allude is marked 
‘ B,’ and is in my pocket-book. If the pocket-book was left at 
Marmyon, doubtless it has fallen into your father’s hands, and he 
has obtained possession of those promissory notes. If it lias not been 
left there, then in response to your telegram they will wire for the 
formula, and I will send it.” 

“ But had you not better send it at once, as it is a matter of life 
and death? The risk is too heavy, surely.” 

“No; 1 will not. It is now after ten o’clock. "You may wire, if 
you will, to-night; but, as you know, the message will not be deliv- 
ered at Marmyon before the morning, for in the rural districts they 
have no notion of the value of time. We should thus get a wire in 
response to-morrow within an hour of the time of its delivery, and 
they at their end might reply in even less time. Hence the actual 
delay would be at the outside a hundred minutes; and, relapse or 
no relapse, Mr. Plantagenet is not going to sink so soon as all that. 
It would take the best part of a week to finish him — three days, at 
the very least.” 

As the reader is already aware, the wire was dispatched in the 
terms suggested by Dr. Lembic, but with one emendation by Errol, 
who sentlt. off. instead of emanating from Errol himself, it was 
dispatched in the name of Dr. Lembic, and thus at once secured at- 
tention. Further, as Sir Kobert did not send a return message, both 
Dr. Lembic and Errol opined rightly that the pocket-book was at 
Marmyon Court, and in the baronet’s safe custody; and this thought 
so exhilarated tlie doctor that he dissected the blind man’s dog to 
death with a gladsome and thankful heart. 

Phenomena, however, affect different people in different ways. 
What is one man’s meat is another man’s poison, and news which 
will frighten one out of his seven senses will reassure another. Con- 
sequently, w^hen Sir Robert sent no reply to a wire which appeared 
so immensely important, Errol, shaking in every limb, implored Dr. 
Lembic to write out the formula, and after much argument got his 
own way. Then he took the prescription to a local ohemist, had it 
made up, and with it started by an afternoon train for Marmyon. 
“ It matters not a rush,” he said to himself, “ whether 1 give deadly 
offense to my father. If 1 can save Planny’s accursed life 1 will be 
content with anything— poverty, hard work, ay, Manitoba, if that’s 
all.” 

He arTived at the station with his light Gladstone bag, and was 
walking quickly toward the village through which he must pass in 
order to reach the Court, when at the turn of the narrow lane he 
cannoned against a man of his own height and build. 

“ Confound you, what do you mean by getting in my way?” 

It was dark, and but for his voice he would not have been recog- 


UISTDEE WHICH KING? 91 

nized; as it was, he lelt his coat-collar gripped tight, and his progress 
absolutely arrested. 

“ You’re Mr. Errol,” said a voice with which he thought he was 
familiar. - 

” 1 am; and you’d best leave me alone, whoever you may be.” 

” 1 am Robert Hodge. What do you want here, Mr. Errol?” 

” Dash your infernal impudence, do you dare to catechise me? 
Hands off, or it will be the worse for you.” 

But the hands were not taken off. On the contrary, their grip 
was tightened, while his struggles to escape only landed him in the 
hedge at the roadside — a rather humiliating situation. 

” You will go back from whence you came,” muttered Robert be- 
tween his teeth. “ No nonsense with me. I know what you’re here 
‘for. I know your murderous game, Mr. Errol.” 

At once the hands of the accused fell in front of him, and he 
dropped his bag, which fell with a crash on the ground like as of 
broken glass. The precious medicine was spilled. 

” 1 don’t understand you, Robert Hodge.” 

“Then the sooner we understand each other, sir, the better. 
You’ve a lot of the villain in your composition, you have. You’ve 
tried to get over my girl, Polly, you know you have.” 

“Faugh ! hi ddle- stick ! ’ ’ 

“ You went to the Marmyon Arms and wanted to persuade my 
mother to cut me adrift. You know you did.” 

“ 1 warned her of the risk she was running. That was all,” 

“ And a nasty piece of malicious, designing interference, too; but 
the wrong you’ve done me, Mr, Errol, is a trifle compared with what 
you’ve done with your brother.” 

“ Folly, folly, Robert; you must be off your head. Let me go, 
man, and I’ll make it worth your while.” 

“ What!” hissed Robert. “Do you think to bribe me? Your 
father has tried the same game, but it won’t pay. I know what 1 
know, sir. 1 heard what you and that devil of a doctor were arrang- 
ing between the pair of you up by the charcoal shanty in Flesset 
underwood, and 1 mean to put a rope round your neck, Mr. Errol. 
So don’t trifle with me. I’m your master.” 

At these words Errol trembled. They were of the nature of a 
sudden and hideous revelation. To reply was an impossibility. He 
could only whine piteously, “ Let me go, Robert. 1 must reach the 
Court at once. My brother’s life depends upon it.” 

“ That’s what 1 say,” retorted Robert, stoutly; “'and it being so, 
to the Court you do not go. Now, sir?” 

Errol reflected a second. Then he thought, “ If only 1 could 
wriggle out of his grip, 1 am the faster runner of the two.” So he 
quietly remarked, “ If 1 am to remain here all night, perhaps you 
will permif me to smoke?” and forthwith he lighted a cigar, 

“You will not stop here,” observed Robert, who, however, was a 
little dubious how to move him. “ You will go back to Oxford Col- 
lege, and keep clear of this place— or— ” 

Puff — puff. “ Or what, if you please?” 

“ Or I’ll lay my information against you, and subpoena Sir Robert 
as a witness. That’s what I’ll do, so help me Bob!” 


92 


' UNDER WHICH KING? 

The cigar tell out of Errol’s lips. “ You infernal meddling, eaves- 
dropping, spying scoundrel!” he hissed at him venomously. 

“ Btow that, Mr. Errol, or 1 shall land you one you won’t like.” 

“ 1 don’t care what you do,” cried Errol, peevishly, in his im- 
potent wrath. “ All 1 can tell you is that I’ve brought some medi- 
cine in m}’^ bag here to save my brother, and that nothing else can 
save him except that. The London doctor’s at fault. He does not 
realize the mischief. 1 do, and 1 mean to save his life — if for no 
other reason, Robert Hodge, at all events for the sake of my own 
neck. Now, do you understand?” 

Robert faltered. This was candid enough. 

“ If you’ll give me the stuff,” he said, “ and let it be submitted to 
the London doctor for him to say ‘ Yes,’ or ‘ No,’ to it, good! 1 won’t 
infertere further if you’ll do that, Mr. Errol.” 

“ Is that aJ:)argain?” asked Errol, distrustfully. 

“ It is, on my oath. I’ve no thought except to stop mischief.” 

“ I’ll take you at your word; there’s my bag, on the ground; you 
can carry it for me up to the Marmyon Arms. Your mother must 
make me up a bed somehow. I’m not going to the Court. In fact, 
if it were not for this medicine 1 should not be here at all to-day, 
and anyhow 1 expect it is my last visit for many a long da}''.” 

Robert said nothing, but lifted the bag, and the two trudged to- 
gether to the little village inn at Marmyon. 

Mrs. Hodge had been at the Court all day, so Belinda averred. 
She went up early in the morning with Mrs. Gipps, and had not re- 
turned as yet; but a rumor had got about that the patient was ever 
so much worse — indeed, sinking last. 

“ Confound it,” exclairced Errol, in an angry tone, as he sat down 
and warmed himself at the back parlor fire. “ Here, Robert, give 
me Ihe bag.” And he opened it hurriedly, to find, however, the 
medicine spilled among his linen. He had come all the way from 
Oxford simply to bring that saving draught, and he was foiled It 
was indeed heart-rending. 

“ Ah,” he cried, “ the prescription!” feeling in his bag. “ Yes; 
here it is soused with this fiuid. But that ’s no matter. They can 
get it made up it they send one of the grooms in the dog-cart. Quick; 
a bit of paper, sirl ’'—this to Belinda—” and a pen. I’ll scribble a 
note, and you, Robert, must take it for me. Sharp, girl, sharp!” 

In less time than it takes to tell, the note was written and addressed 
to Lady Marmyon, and Robert Hodge was running off to the Court 
as fast as his legs could carry him, Errol having entreated him not 
only to lose no time, Biiice Plantagenet’s life might depend upon his 
celerity, but also to return as quickly as he could, inasmuch as he, 
Errol, w^as burning with impatience for the latest bulletin. 

As soon as this fleet-footed Mercury was departed Errol lighted a 
cigar, pulled a society paper out of his pocket, and w^aited. An hour 
passed, and still Robert did not return; yet another, and* there was 
no sign of him. liliss Belinda yawned, and asseverated that some- 
thing “ oilul ” must have happened to keep our Robert, as he was 
allers a man of his word. There \vas nobo’dy to send; and besides 
this the messengers, like those of Ahab to Jehu, went but came not 
again. 

“ 1 can’t bear it any longer!” gasped Errol, when closing-time ar- 


93 


UNDEE WHICH KIHG? 

rived and the house was being shut up lor the night. Come what 
may, 1 shall go myself,” And he took up his hat, and in dubiety 
and intense mental disquietude walked up to his old home, Marmyon 
Court. 


CHAPTER XII. 

PATERNAL LOVE. 

When Mrs, Hodge, the middle-aged but hypertrophied, had con- 
trived, with the aid of Mrs. Gipps, the aged, tottering, yet spare 
woman, to roll herself up to the Court, she first sought the sanctum 
of Mrs. Hester Mazebrook. Thereunto gravitated habitually all that 
was respectable, decorous, and- independent; other and interior 
people, especially those who added to a slender income by washing, 
being considered by her unfit lor anytliing superior to the servants' 
hall. 

Mrs. Mazebrook, as became a vroman on the reverse side of forty, 
and the dispenser of stores to so grand an establishment, had cul- 
tivated the airs and graces which adorned her predecessor, 1 hough at 
heart a very modest and humble person. Hence she received Mrs. 
Hodge with dignity, and J\lrs. Gipps, as being a humbler and less 
independent individual, patronizingly, 

“ 'Ow is the patient, mum, do j^oi^ast? Thank you, mum, I 
think he’s no better. His mind, they tells me, is steadier, and Sir 
Robert have sent for some new medicine as is going to work won- 
ders— leastways, if it bain’t too late.” 

It be too late,” groaned Martha Hodge, the tears flowing apace 
from her eyes, and spangling Mrs. Mazebrook’s drugget. 

” No, no, Mrs. Hodge, you mustn’t say that. It’s' never too late 
to mend. But there, mum, you allers ’,ad a feeling 'eart, and poor 
Mr. Plantagenet, he were your foster-child.” 

Mrs. Hodge tried to stammer something, but tailed. Then she 
began to sob spasmodically and choke, so that, with her rubicund 
face and short neck, she appeared to be in imminent peril of apoplexy. 
Finally, to increase that peril, Mrs. Gipps came behind her and 
thumped her on tJie back. 

” She wants to see Sir Robert. She’ve got something very pertik- 
ler to say to him. That’s what she’ve come about,” whispered ]\lrs. 
Gipps, between the paroxysms of coughing, choking, and sobbing, 
in the ear of perplexed Hester Mazebrook. 

” There ain’t much oi a chance of seeing him,” replied the house- 
Jjeeper. “ Dr. Shadfort’s gone, and is coming’ back in the evening, 
and Sir Robert has gone to sit by Mr. Plantagenet ’s bedside and has 
given orders he’s on no account to be interrupted, for you see the 
poor young gentleman’s head’s clear, and he can understand what Sir 
Robert says. He’s ever so weak, but he ain’t off his head as he was 
yesterday. However, Sir Robert’s main sure to come down-stairs 
for lunch. It’s a meal he likes best of any, and I’d advise Mrs. 
Hodge to sit down quiet and wait till then. There’s ‘ The Morning 
Post,’ and there’s a glass of wine in the cupboard. I’m off to my 
duties, tor Mr. Orphrey is asked to luncheon, and 1 believe the cause 
is U3 he is to administer the last rites of the Church. Good- morning 


94 


UKDER WHICH KIHG? 

for the present, Mrs. Hodge; and, Mrs. Gipps, you try and make 
her comfortable. It be a tryin’ time for us all.” 

What Hester Mazebrook had stated was substantially correct. Sir 
Robert, after his long night of anxiety, had begun to reproach hini- 
selt tor not having all these years taken a sufficiently paternal inter- 
est in Plantagenet, and still more tor having been attracted insensi- 
bly to Errol, whom he now regarded as a reprobate, unworthy to 
bear the grand old family name. “ How%” thought he, ** the hour 
of Kemesis has come. 1 am about to lose this fine, manly magnani- 
mous fellow, whom I have all along undervalued because of his 
rough and sturdy nature, and at the same moment the boy on whom 
in secret 1, and openly my wife, have lavished affection, turns out 
to be a blackguard, i am justly punished; but before the silver 
cord is broken I will make what amends lies in my power, so that 
if he is spared he shall be assured of my deep affection, and if he is 
taken he will leave us with the full knowledge of being mourned for 
and lamented as one we have really loved.” 

Yet there was one other thought that rather oppressed the baron- 
et’s mind. Ought he, or ought he not, to disclose Errol’s treachery? 
Had he kept his head cool, the answer common-sense Avould have 
givcQ to his query would have been a decided negative. As it was 
he was “simply effervescing wdth repentance, and fancied that, by 
making a clean confession of Errol’s sin, he should somehow atone 
for his own neglect. 

it w'as in this state of mind that he sought the sick-chamber of un- 
fortunate Plantagenet, 

Ihe young man, with his bandaged face and broken arm, lay sol- 
emnly on the bed, calm, with blanched lips and a terrible look of 
exhaustion. As Sir Robert entered, he seemed hardly to recognize 
him; but by degrees his eye regained its intelligence, and when his 
sire took his hand lovingly he faintly smiled. 

“ My dearest,” cried Sir Robert, “ 1 hope, we all hope and pray, 
that your dear life may he spared, foi your own sake as well as for 
ours. Ah, Planny, you have thought me a cold, a stern, an unsym- 
pathetic parent, but at heart I am not so. 1 am grieved beyond all 
speech, my dearest, to see you thus. You are my pride and my hope. 
1 could die for vou, Planny!” 

Plantagenet Marmyon turned to look at the baronet. Was he 
dreaming? Could this be the language of that chilling, repellent 
father who had always set his detested younger brother over his 
head. He must be dreaming, he felt sure. 

Nevertheless, when his father pressed his hand he returned the 
pressure, being in truth not a little touched by these strange words 
of unlooked-for love, 

“ Planny, if 1 have seemed cold, if 1 have neglected my duty to 
you, then 1 ask, dear boy, your pardon. 1 ask it humbly ; 1 ask it 
earnestly.” 

There were tears now in the baronet’s eyes, and tears on the bar- 
onet’s cheeks, and his voice, ususally so crisp and firm, sounded 
broken and unsteady. The father was humiliating himsdf even to 
the dust and Plantagenet knew it, as he whispered, “ There is noth- 
ing to forgive. Y’^ou have always been most earnest for my wel- 
fare. Rather it is 1 who ought to ask your pardon, for-—” 


95 


UNDER WHICH KING? 

“ No, no, Planny, you have been a model son. 1 have never found 
fault with you in my heart, except, perhaps, as regards mannere, but 
that’s ot no consequence. I’m sure no father was ever blessed with 
a nobler son than you have been to me, and — and — 1 could not bear 
to lose you, Planny. 1 pray every hour that you may be spared.” 

“ Has the doctor given me up?” 

“No, no, a thousand times no. You will have some fresh medi- 
cine shortly, and we have great hopes that it will prove the true pan- 
acea.” 

Plantajrenet Marmyon closed his eyes. He read Sir Robert’s 
optimism between the lines, and formed his own conclusion. 

“Father,” he wliispered, and Sir Robert drew near to him. 
“Father, 1 have never loved but oned^ Will yom tell Ida that 1* 
think of her, and that 1 — hope she will marry a good man; mind, 
a good man, father, and not Errol.” 

■* Errol,” echoed Sir Robert, paling. “ Planny, shall I tell you a 
secret? Can you bear it? It is something you ought to know.” 

The sick man gave a look as mucli as to say 1 have not much power 
of endurance left. Spare me. But Sir Robert had made up his 
mind to speak, and could not spare or keep silence. 

“ Listen. It is a grievous thing tor a father to have to tell a son, 
but I dare not keep this secret from you. Your complaint is, as you 
know, typhoid.” 

“Yes!” exclaimed Plantagenet, with sudden firmness. 

“ And — and 1 fear— that is, 1 think — that is, 1 have reason to be- 
lieve that Errol, my son Errol, Planny, suborned that scoundrel 
Lembic to communicate the disease to you. Y'ou are the victim.” 

And the poor man hid his face in his hands in O'^erwhelming 
shame. ' 

“ So,” murmured the deep, sepulchral voice of Plantagenet — 
“ so, my brother would murder me for my 16ve and my inheritance. 
He shall not succeed! By my love for Ida, he shall not!” And he 
raised himself in the bed and clinched his fist. 

“ Planny, dearest Planny, this is madness. This is suicide, Planny. 
If you would cheat that unutterable blackguard, ray son, whom 1 
have disowned and cast adrift, you must be calm. Excite yourself, 
and you play his game for him only too well.” 

“ Y'es,” gasped the sick man, feebly; “ that is right. 1 will be 
calm. Give me the new medicine as soon as ever it comes.” 

And he closed his eyes. 

“ Planny, dearest, you trust me now, don’t you? You realize that 
you are my only, my dearly loved son, and that if anything happens 
I am indeed a childless man, and my name, if it does not perish, is 
dishonored.” 

“Yes, father, 1 trust you; 1 honor you; I love you. And if 1 
were to be called before the bar of eternal justice 1 would declare 
that my errors are my own, for my father has been always true and 
always good.” 

This utterance of one whom Sir Robert, in his inmost soul, tooK 
to be a dying man, was all the. more inefiably touching because con- 
science told him it was all undeserved. ‘ Here was a simple heart 
paying the largest tribute to the hypocrisy of long years which only 


96 


UKDER which KIXCt? 


at the supreme crisis had been metamorphosed— and then, too, very 
much by an accident — into sincere affection. 

A knock at the door and hiiirse Pratling entered with the medi- 
cine, which having been duly administered, that judicious woman 
cast an ^ye on the patient, and then remarked, significantly: 
“ Pulse higher nor it were an hour ago; 'eye brighter; breathing less 
easy. "You’ve been taking too much out of him. Sir Robert, by your 
long talk.c Suppose we was to try now a bit of quiet and rest. It 
might do good, and, besides, Mr. Orphrey, that is the clergyman, 
so they tells me, have been waiting to see you in the library this 
. ’arf-hour or more." 

Sir Robert extracted a pocket-handkerchief, blew his nose, wiped 
•his eyes, and then muttered ‘ Yes, nurse, yes; quite right. Bless 
you, my boy " — turning to the bed — ‘‘ and may you be preserved for 
your poor father’s sake!" 

And stooping down he kissed the sick man’s clammy forehead rev- 
erently, while Tn the return poor Planny took his hand and pressed it 
to his* lips calmly, but in truth lovingly. 

‘‘Good-by, Planny.” 

“ Good -by, father." 

Then the" baronet, the tears forcing their way as though they 
would not stop, hurried down-stairs, and, nothing ashamed, grasped 
the thin, pale hand of the vicar. 

“Orphrey," he cried, in a lamentable voice, “it is indeed an 
awful thing to lose a son, and if you knew all, if 1 dared tell you all, 
my dear friend, you would indeed say that a horrible judgment hjrs 
fallen on this house." 

“You may tell me. Sir Robert," replied the vicar, in his own 
cold, restrained way, yet not unkindly tor him. “ I am a priest, and 
would die rather than break the seal of confession." 

“ For shame’s sake 1 dare not, Mr. Orphrey." 

“ It what you have to say refers to the mental condition of the man 
who you fear — pray that it may not be so— is about to pass away, 
then it would be wrong to conceal it from me, however disagreeable 
the revelation may be to make." 

“ 1 hardly know how to act. Sooner or later if not to-day, to- 
morrow-all depends on Dr. Shadfort’s fiat — 1 may have to request 
jmu to administer the last sacrament to my poor son." 

“ Yes; and to hear his last, perhaps his only confession." 

“ Mr. Orphrey he has been done the most grievous wrong that a 
man can receive from tlieJiands of his fellow. That, however, is his 
misfortune, not his fault." 

“ Yesi, my dear Sir Robert, that may be so; but here a further 
question arises: Can he, after enduring a wrong of the sort you out- 
line, sincerely forgive his malefactor?" 

“Ah! yes. There, 1 own, is the rub. 1 could not; and that’s 
the truth." * - 

“ Then, Sir Robert, you would imperil your soul." 

“ Do you believe that*:"" 

“ 1 must believe it. It is my creed; the very essence of my creed; 
the fine flower of the garden of the*soiil. Besides, it is true." 

Sir Robert took a turn round the room, then he faced the meek- 
eyed, ascetic priest, and paused inquiringly. 


UNDER WHICH KING? 97 

“ If 1 pour dirty watm* into your vessel it will not leak?” 

‘‘ It will not; it cannot. Personall}', 1 and my colleagues would 
rather have the vessels of our memory surcharged with crystal 
streams than with foul and putrid sewage. But it is not to be. We 
have to hold all and never to lose a drop. You and I are not now 
in a confessional, but all secrets conlided to us priests in our spirit- 
ual character, as the representatives of our Master, are confessions, 
and as such w'e have, to the rest of mankind, no knowledge of them. 
They are sealed, so that the seal cannot be broken.” 

” Good. Then, Mr. Orphrey, lend me your ear. My tale Is one 
that seems to burn my tongue or freeze it, to rend my heart and 
cover me with shame. It has laid mine honor in the dust.” And 
slowly, painfully, yet with faithful exactitude. Sir Robert divulged 
his* miserable secret. 

‘‘Cruel; intensely wicked; hideously selfish, but just what 1 
might have expected from a disciple of Paul Bert. Eliminate belief 
— that is, the sense of responsibility to a Power that can punish — 
and you convert man into an animal, with all the coagulated vices of 
the animal creation, with the venom of the serpent, the cruelty of 
the tiger or the cat, the wrath of the lion, the bestiality and cunuing 
of the monkey, the gluttony of the pig. That demon Lembic has 
unconsciously vivisected himself. He has excised completely that 
quality which we Christians term conscience, and instead thereof 
has inserted in his strange composition a subtle quality borrowed 
from tlie Father of Lies. As for your son — ” 

‘‘ He is no son of mine. 1 disown him.” 

‘‘ No. He is your son. He is bone of your bone and flesh of 
your flesh. You cannot abrogate your responsibility. You have 
permitted him to associate with a talented wretch whose sole happi- 
ness consists in barbarity to God’s creatures, and then you blame 
him for the conclusion that follows logically from that premiss. 
Blame yourself, or at all events, share the blame with the sinner.” 

” It was an oversight on my part, Mr. Orphrey.” 

‘‘ Y'es; and nearly all the misery in the world is caused by over- 
sights. This oversight of yours. Sir Robert, which you will pardon 
my terming willful blindness, has perhaps robbed you of one son 
and estranged you from the other. And 1 am all the more surprised 
at you giving your sanction to the crimes of the vivisectors against 
creation, because you are too true a sport sinan to be cruel, and too 
much of a Tory to oe in sympathy with the atheistic, communistic 
crow, who would cram down our "throats the ethics and the cruelties 
of Frenchmen, such as the typical assailant of Catholicism, the no- 
torious Bert. 1 am not a sportsman, for 1 shrink from killing, hold 
ing perhaps an exaggerated reference for the sublime gift of life, 
and 1 am assuredly no Tory, but rather a Democrat, so far as theory 
goes, yet 1 am angrily opposed to vivisection, whereas you have ac- 
cepted that w’ Ich is a sin against God ai.J his creation, on the 
ground of sophistical expediency.” 

” And 1 am punished,” said Sir Robert, rising. ” Punished, aye, 
crushed to death. Come, friend, let me give you some luncheon. 
Afterward we shall hear what the effect of the new medicine is, and 
whether it will be desirable-for you to see poor Planny to-day, or 
defer your interview until to-morrow. AUons!'' > 

A 


98 


UNDEK WHICH KTIs-Gr 


Lady Marmyon was present at the social meal, but silent. She 
had rather aifected the malade imaginaire, albeit there was nothing 
at all the matter with her, in order to escape tire gtne ot nursing the 
sick man. But though she shirked her duty — as most people would 
hav^e called it — she otherwise preserved the unities, piilliug a long 
face, upturning her rather weak eyes to the ceiling, and talking in the 
most awfully subdued tones. “ Boor dear Planny !" she murmured, 
elongating the “ poor ” and the “ dear ” till they sounded like “ Poo- 
ur ” “ dee-ar,” “ he was always such a fond creature, just like a big 
St. Bernard dog, Mr. Orphrey! But”— sigh— “ the threads of life 
and those of death seem in this world to be inexplicably tangled. 
Still we have hope left us. Indeed, Dr. Shadfort was almost en- 
couraging.” 

” JSothing of the kind, my dear,” protested her husband. ” Quite 
the other way. Jn fact ” — lowering his voice to a whisper — ‘‘ 1 am 
all but hopeless.” 

” That is not my view,” protested Lady Marmyon, with pursy 
dignity, as though the decrees of Heaven hung upon her fiat. 

“ If you please. Sir Robert,” here interposed, in a stage-whisper, • 
the ministering flunkey, ” Mrs. Hodge have sent a message that she 
wants to see you on very particular business.” 

‘‘Er— ah! Yes! Er— ah, no! Tell tirewoman Hodge 1 really 
cannot at this moment be bothered with her or her affairs. Er — ah 
— it’s unconscionable!” 

‘‘ Thatvwoinan Hodge,” remarked Mr. Orphrey, severely, is the 
curse of the parish. 1 wish with all my hegrt her vile drink-sho]) 
were closed for evermore. ’ ’ 

” Er— ah, yes,”, replied Sir Robert, dubiously, reflecting perhaps 
on the fact that the Marmyon Arms added something to his yearly 
rent roll, a consideration he was not prepared, even on religious 
grounds, to overlook. 

So tire conversation changed; nevertheless, before the repast was 
ended the persistent flunky returned to the charge, having in fact 
been incited thereunto by a largesse of five shillings from the afore- 
said Martha Hodge. 

“If you please,” Sir Robert, “ Mrs. Hodge she asts your very 
bumble parding. Sir Robert, but she saj^s, Sir Robert, as see you she 
must, inasmuch as it’s a matter of life and death and won’t wait.” 

“ Really — er— ah,” protested Sir Robert, turning to Mr. Orphrey 
and sipping his claret, “the pertinacity and inirusiveness of the 
lower orders surpasses all comprehension. Here am I with my poor 
son lying in the most critical state upstairs — a matter of life and 
death, indeed and in truth, as this impudent woman puts it — and 
yet 1 must be pestered with her chatter. No, 1 will not humor her. 
She has no conscience. ” 

* “ But,” pleaded Lady Marmyon, “ perhaps Martha Hodge wishes 
to see poor Planny. It would "be only natural, for she nursed hiin 
as a baby. Don’t you thi ok — ” 

“ Er— ah, as 3^011 like, ray dear. Here, William, go and tell Mrs. 
Hodge that it she wishes to see.Mr. Plantagenet, and Nurse Pratling 
will give her permission, she has my leave to enter his room for a 
minute only— mind, only one hiiniite, and there is to be no scene. 
Tell her that. ” 


99 


UisDER -WHICH KIJSIH? 

** Yes, Sir Robert.” 

But in a trice William returned with the message that Mrs. Hodge 
must see Sir Robert, and that nobody else would do. 

” Upon my honor!” cried the baronet, flushing indignantly. 

” And she begged me to add with her bumble duty,^Sir Robert,” 
faltered the man, who was conscious of trespassing, “ that if she 
don’t see you this very day it’s no good.” 

‘‘ Then,” replied ^le baronet, ” it will have to be no good, for my 
attention is preoccupied. The answer, William, is no!” 

” You are rather hard, Robert,” remarked Lady Marmyon, per- 
haps for simple contradiction, adding, with a sort of scornful smile, 
” what is your opinion, Mr. Orphrey?” 

” Well,” replied the vicar, ”1 never volunteer criticism, Lady 
Marmyon, unless it is specially invited. ” 

“If you think 1 ought to see her as a matter of duty — of duty,” 
said Sir Robert, addressing the vicar, ” why, then, 1 will— er — ah — 
try to put my feelings in my pocket.” 

” It might be advisable,” responded Mr. Orphrey, hesitatingly. 

” Very well. In that case, AVilliam, you may tell Hodge that 1 
will send for her when 1 want her. She can wait.” 

And so, after much pertinacity, Martha Hodge got her way. 


CHAPTER Xlll. 

A BASE CONSPIRACY. 

Martha Hodge had to exercise the virtue of patience, and to 
trust to hope long deterred, for no sooner hud Mr. Orphrey departed 
(Mrs. Pratling having petitioned that her patient should not be dis- 
turbed by the clergyman, as she believed in her heart the new medi- 
cine was already doing him a power of good) than the baronet in- 
sisted on taking his seat by the sick-bed, where he remained with 
limpet-like pertinacity hour after hour, in expectation that each train 
would bring down Dr. Shadtort. 

At last he retired, and, sick at heart, sat down in the library. 

It was nine o’clock at night, and Mrs. Hodge’s wait had lasted 
nearly twelve hours. No wonder, therefore, on learning from Will- 
iam that master was alone at hist, so resolute a woman should have 
taken the bull by the horns and with French leave introduced herself. 
As the door opened. Sir Robert involuntarily gazed at the intruder, 
but his visage was blank, and he really hardly realized her identity. 
His mind was surcharged with the calamity which he fully antici- 
pated was imminent, and all thought for other people had been elim- 
inated from his brain bj’- the dull sense of apprehension caused 
thereby. 

” i beg your pardon — humbly I beg it — Sir Robert, but I’ve been 
sitting in Mrs. Mazebrook's room all day, and as you was alone I 
ventured to come in without asking.” 

‘‘You find me, my good soul,” replied the baronet, in a low sad 
tone, ‘‘ preoccupied and crushed. There is, 1 am morally convinced, 
no hope. Till this evening I cherished the illusion that Dr. Lem- 
bic’s prescription would turn the scale — 1 had, indeed, reason for 
thinking so. But 1 am now of the contrary opinion. 1 have dis- 


100 


UNDEE WHICH KIKC? 

, missed illusions. My son, my noble-hearted son, Mrs. Hodge, is, 1 
fear, doomed. It is cruel, cruel, cruel!” 

Martha Hodge stared hard at him, slowly grasped his meaning, 
and uttered a hysterical shriek, her huge overfed frame shaking wih 
emotion. She made, however, a grand ellortto contain herself, and 
was about to utter, when Sir Robert, who was not a little astonished 
at this exhibition on her part of intense emotion, remarked, quietly, 
‘‘ Are we partners in pain, then, Mrs. Hodge?” 

” Sir— Robert,” gasped the woman slowly, rocking herself as she 
spoke, much as if the words could only be extracted by violent mus- 
cular exertion, ” you have less reason to take on than me, though 
you don’t know it.” 

” Mis. Hodge — this is enigmatical,” cried Sir Robeit, in a tone of 
offense. ” You don’t seem to weigh your words.” 

“ Oh, yes, I do. I’ve been thinking all day what to say and how 
to say it, and if you can’t now understand how it is that i’m the 
real one to suffer, the more’s the pity. The wonder to my mind is 
that it hain’t been plain to your eyes for these many years.” 

The attention of Sir Robert was by now fully aroused, and he 
walked across the room and sat down by the side of Martha Hodge, 
fixing his eye firmly and inquiringly upon her. 

” Hey, what’s this? You must drop mystery, woman, and speak 
what’s in your mind. Come, no equivocating, no shirking. You 
are here for a purpose; in one word, wdiat is that purpose?” 

Martha Hodge was rather taken aback by the imperious tone of 
her lord and ruler. At another moment it would have repelled con- 
fidence and closed her mouth, how, how'ever, it only lor the instant 
staggered her; it did not daunt her. 

” My will,” she answered, “ is to do justice, at all costs. 1 may 
put a rope round my neck for what 1 can tell; I may send myself to 
prison. But I don’t care that for myself. Sir Robert, you think 
the sick man up-stairs is your son and your wife’s son?” 

“ Of course 1 do, Mrs. Hodge. Aud he is so.” 

” Is he? Is he like you? Is he like my lady? Ain’t children in 
feature and in form somewhat of the same sort as them as brings 
’em into the world? Sir Robert, will you oblige me by lookin’ care- 
ful at that photograph?” 

The baronet snatched it out of her hand rudely, took it to the 
lamp, and at a glance said, ‘‘Yes; it’s poor Planny, but a bad like- 
ness and in a singular dress. What’s the meaning of all this rigma- 
role and nonsense, w'oman?” 

‘‘ Look at it again. Sir Robert. No, look at the back. Is there ever 
a date to it?” 

“ Why, woman, it’s your husband, John Hodge, us a young man!” 

Mrs. Hodge said nothing, but cast her eyes dowm. 

” What do you wish me to infer from this picture and your 
words?” 

“What, Sir Robert? Why— to be sure— the truth, the whole 
truth, and nothing but the truth. This day -this day w'heu 1 am 
humbled to the dust, when all hope for the cliild of my body is 
taken from me, 1 repent my deceit, and though it be late, conless 
it.” 

Sir Robeit gripped her tat arm violently. ” You do not speak 


. . U-lfDER WHICH KIKH? 101 

the truth/’ he said. “You do but insinuate. You dare not utier 
the lie you have basely — at this ciuel ciisis — come here to suggest.” 

But Mrs. Hodge no sooner felt the collar than her eyes dried, and 
her spirit rose to the occasion. “ Sir Robert,” she replied, with 
calm assurance, “if I’ve tried to break the news, ’t is on your ac- 
count, not on mine. But if you will have it straight, I tell you this, 
and I’ll piove it too, that Plantagenet Marmyon is Plantagenet 
Hodge, son ot John and Martha Hodge!” 

“ Your — your — son!” in a tone ot horror and disgust. 

“ And that Robert Hodge is the son of Sir Robert and Lady 
Marmyon, being as like his father as one pea is to another pea.” 

Sir Robert clasped bis hands epileptically, while his lips moved in 
a strange mechanical fashion. But he could not speak. 

“ \Yell,” cried Martha, impatiently, “ ain’t that good news for 
you? Ain’t it awful for me? Isn't a live son, though he be a 
working-man, better than one as is all but a corpse? Trust me, .Sir 
Robert, if there was a shred of hope I’d never have spoke. All 
these years I’ve had no thought for self, only for hirh and his wel- 
fare, and 1 did hope as he, my own boy, would have been a great 
man and a happy one. But as it ain’t to be, as wickedness never yet 
did prosper, I’m not going to let that there Errol win his game. 
Not me. Sir Robert. My son’s death lies at Errol’s door, and I 
know it, thanks to Robert, and for telling that Robert shall have his 
own.” 

“ Yes,” muttered the baronet, in the most sepulchral of basses, 
“ but— the proof? You ignore the proof.” 

“ You wish for proof? You ain’t afraid of facing it?” 

Sir Robert reflected long — dubiously — meditatively. 

“ Yes,” he reiterated as though thinking aloud, “ in a case of this 
sort it is right to listen, be the consequences what they may. But I 
warn you fairly, Mrs. Hodge, that in giving attention to your as- 
severation 1 do not for a second admit its validity. Changing chil- 
dren in the cradle is a very stale trick indeed, and one not to be ex- 
pected in real life. Nevertheless, as you choose to accuse yourself 
ot a very gross and abominable fraud, X am- virtually compelled to 
hear your confession and its corroboration, if any. Now!” and 
he folded his hands and closed his eyes. 

Martha Hodge felt her veracity challenged. She had, in her sim- 
plicity of soul— not being a woman much given to sifting evidence, 
but judging^ by the impulse ot the moment, on the principle that 
feminine perception is inf allible — imagined that the photograph 
would amount to proof positive. As it was, she perceived that her 
story was ah initio discredited, and her resolve was taken then and 
there to convince the stubborn intellect of one who, as she sup- 
posed, refused to be convinced because of unwillingness, not for 
conscience’ sake. 

“ Very well. Sir Robert,” she answered, wiping her mouth with 
the corner ot her apron. “ I’ll submit my proof. But before doing 
so you had best hear how it all came about,” 

“ Quite so,” said the baronet, in his normal, quick, crisp voic«, 
“ only 1 tell you in advance that it looks to me as though you were 
bent upon foisting your son Robert on me— that is my impression, 
Remove it if you can,” ^ 


102 


UKDER WHICH KIHG? 

“ Such is my desire,” whined Martha, cut to the quick by the 
baronet’s persistent incredulity. ” When 1 were carried up to the 
Court to nurse your son, Sir Kobert, I were taken to Mrs, Pratllng’s 
room, and Hester Mazebrook were then the under touse-maid as 
were told off to wait upon me. 1 recollects every single circum- 
stance as if it were yesterday, and so docs others as well, so don’t 
,take it on my wor d only. When 1 come into Nurse Prat ling’s room 
aud was laid on the bed 1 had iry baby with me — ” 

” 1 rather doubt the accuracy of that statement,” interposed Sir 
Kobert. “ If that happened my orders must have been disobeyed. 
However, proceed, ” 

” 1 am correct,” continued Martha. “ My baby was laid on the 
bed, and j)reseutly in comes nurse with my lady’s baby, and we put 
the two together and remarked as they had the same colored eyes 
and a biggish lobe to their ears. But I took a note, thougli 1 said 
nothing S,t the time, that my lady’s baby had a thickening ot the 
throat— a sort of a swelling; whereas there weren’t a fault about my 
baby. It was just dinner-time, and Nurse Prattling said she’d go 
and get her dinner in the servants’ hall, and send me up mine by Hes- 
ter. But before she went she goes to the cupboard, fetches a bit of 
gold cord, and ties it round the leg of your baby. Sir Robert. A 
minute after nurse had left the room, Hester she went out to get 
my dinner. Well, 1 oughtn’t lo have moved so soon after my con- 
tiriemeut, Lut 1 jumps off the bed, goes to the cupboard, ties a bit ot 
that same cord lound my baby’s leg, changes the children’s clothes, 
and as soon as Hester came with my dinner, 1 sends her off to 
Widow Gipps with your baby. Nurse Pratling came back later 
on,j,and being surprised at the child she thought was mine being 
gone, she pulls up the clothes and examines the leg ot the little one. 
There was the gold cord, sure enough, and the proper clothes on 
the child’s body, but she hadn’t time to pay much attention, for in 
walked the doctor. Sir Marshall something.” 

” Midwinter?” 

‘‘ Yes, that’s the man’s name: and here 1 had a squeak' to be 
found out, for, says he, ‘ What about that swelling?’ and ‘ How big 
the child have growed!’ my baby being the heavier ot the two by 
several pounds. But nurse were thinking about my lady, who was 
in danger of a fever or something, and she and the doctor went 
away, and 1 were left pretty much with Hester for three or four 
days.” 

” Quite so,” remarked Sir Robert, dryly, but we are no nearer 
the corroboration. All this, Mrs. Hodge, is your tale. It may be 
true; it may be an illusion of youi brain; it may be—excuse me— a 
willful deception. Now, it you please, for witnesses other than Mrs. 
Hodge, who, whether she be a witness of truth or of error, is, per- 
haps, not tree from the suspicion of being interested.” 

” You wrong me, Sir Kobert,” cried Martha, reddening almost 
purple. ‘‘ My ambition was for my son, not tor your son. 1 never 
bad any love for your son. 1 never did right by'him. 1 could not 
be his mother. He was nothing to me, and there is so little love 
lost between us that if he was recognized as your eldest son to-mor- 
row he would never thank me. ” ’ 


TN^DER WHICH KING? 103 

“ 1 imclcretand. That is so far plausible. However, to revert to 
the point-— your witnesses, Mrs. Hodge.” 

“ First, there is Nurse Piatling. 1 have not spoken to her, but if 
you question her she will recollect the circumstances. Next there is 
Hester; she carried your baby, dressed in my baby’s clothes, to 
NVidow Gipps, and she saw the golden cord and pointed it out to the 
old woman. Ihave asked Mrs. Gipps about it, quite permiscuous, 
Sir Eobert, and she has the very identical cord in her possession.” 

“Yes? Is that all?” 

“ Except the swelling. Hester Mazebrook will testify to that, and 
so will Mrs. Gipps, who had ,a job to reduce it; and if you’ll ask 
Nurse Pratling or that London doctoi* they’ll tell you it’s no inven- 
tion of mine. Last, not least, Sir Eobert, the young man you call 
Eobert Hodge has a thickening of the throat, just as you have, Sir- 
Eobert, if 1 may say so; and the young man upstairs as passes for 
jmur son, he’s got my John’s muscles and limbs, but a littlish throat 
for one ot his stature and build.” 

“ And that’s the story?" 

“ Yes, except the word of the living witnesses.” 

Sir Eobert walked to the bell and summoned William. 

“ Send Mrs. Piatling to mc-r-at once.” 

“ And WidovTGipps, young man,” added Martha Hodge. 

In a trice the monthly nurse entered in company with the old 
widow, took a seat, and whispered, confidentially, “He’s asleep, 
poor lamb!” 

* “ Now, Mrs. Hodge,” remarked the baronet, who refused to de- 
part from his judicial attitude a hair’s^breadth. “ Now, you will, if 
you please, examine your own witnesses. It’s no concern ot mine 
to prove your case.” 

Mrs. Hodge bit her lip. To tackle Nurse Pratling was not easy. 

So she began diplomatically: “ Sir Eobert wishes you to tell what 
you know as precisel}'^ as if you was m a court of justice. Am I 
right, Sir Eobert?” 

“ Oh, yes; be particular, nurse,” with affected indifference. 

And so— not to cover the same ground too often — Martha Hodge 
extracted from Mrs, Piatling a confirmation of her asseveration in 
every particular, though her memory occasionall.y required refresh- 
ing. To her followed Widow Gipps, whose bit of dulled gold cord 
Mrs. Praningowned “ might.be the same;” and Hester Mazebrook, 
who gave her evidence with directness. Having tbe three women 
before him. Sir Eobert was about to submit them all to the test of a 
cross examination, when to his horror theie entered one as deeply 
interested as himself in tne veracity or falsehood of the tale thus 
suddenly spuing upon him, Lady Maim^on. 

It became then and there necessary to explain. 

Lady Marmyon, however, was in no mood to hear. “ What,” 
she shrilled, turning upon Martha in as tigerish a way as was com- 
patible with ladyhood, “ do you mean to say that that elod-hopping 
son of yours, who has been in jail lately, is my son? Eeally, Eob- 
ert,” frowning at her husband, “lam surprised at your listening to 
such brazen eflrontery. Can’t you see that it is a conspiracy to 
defraud, not Plantagenet, poor fellow, but Errol?” 


104 e TJKDER WHICH KING? 

“I’ve done a wicKed wrong,” protested Martha; “hut what 1 
say, my lady, is the truth.” 

“And so,” continued Lady Marmyon, scornfully, “you, Maze- 
brook, are a party to this vile plot. You, upon whom 1 have placed 
above others at the head of ray household, and trusted implicitly. 
However, you know your business best, 1 suppose, but, ot course, 
after this you can not remain here — no, not for an hour. Robert, 
you must support me in this. 1 am shocked and sickened at such 
ingratitude. iS'ot a word from any of you, if you please. Anything 
jmu could urge would only aggravate the w^rong you have done. 
Silence! 1 will not be answered. ^Robert, do you sit still and per- 
mit your wife to bejnsulted? 1 will not endure it.” 

W hat would have happened it is not easy to divine, for her lady- 
ship was infuriated, but just at that juncture the footman announced 
that Mr. Orphrey was in the drawdng-room. He had come to see the 
sick man. 

“Oh!” cried Lady Marmyon; “ then, thank Heaven, 1 shall have 
some one to say a word for me. No; none of you movef 1 will refer 
this false and fraudulent charge to the sober judgment of our clergy- 
man. Ask Mr. Orphrey in here, William.” 

The priestly-looking vicar, with his asceticsface and his studied, 
%elf -contained manner, entered like Apollo to savC Sir Robert from 
humiliation. When Juno takes to bullying Jove before all the meni- 
als of Olympus it is rather painful f(»r the King of gods. 

Lady Marmyon was about to begin, but the crisp, sharp voice of 
her spouse anticipated her. Sir Robert perceived the value ot the 
first word, and made haste to secure it. 

“A statement has been hazarded,” he said, “by Mrs. Hodge, 
which has given us all infinite pain; in fact at a moment when the 
angel of death seems to be—” 

“ The angel ot peace, the angel of sleep,” interrupted Mrs. Prat- 
ling, vigorously. “ The dear young gentleman has his chance at 
last. Wait till you hear what Dr. Shadfort says!” 

But nobody except Martha Hodge, who gave a little start ot 
pleasurable surprise, noticed the ejaculation of the good nurse. 

“ — the angel of death seems to be hovering round our very 
eaves,” continued Sir Robert, “ to be told that our dying son is not 
our son at all, and iris brother not his next ot kin. To be told also 
that another is our child— this amounts, you will agree with me, 
Mr. Orphrey, to a thnnder-bolt.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” mui mured Lady Marmyon, spitefully, “ unless' 
lies are hurled from the clouds.” 

-Mr. Orphrey stood posed. This was a tableau he had little 
dreamed ot, though as to the rest ot the world it had been all along 
a puzzle to him how— tos invert the old metaphor of Horace — 
leopards had generated a lion. He head to pull himself together in 
order to be in any degree equal to the situation, the more so because 
there w^ere riveted upon him, as upon one inspired, the eyes not only 
ol the baronet and his wife, but of Mrs. Pratling, Widow Gipps, 
and tearful Hester Mazebrook, who was trembling from the crown 
of her innocent head to the sole of her foot. 

“ Am 1 to understand that your ladyship repudiates this story 
that Mrs. Hodge has come forward to vouch for?” 


UNDER WHICH KINCt? 105 

Lady Marmyon bowed. 

“]t is one which, 1 take it, implicates its author seriously, and 
had better be left for the courts of law to decide upon.” 

” Oh, no!” cried Lady Marmyon, petulantly. ‘‘ Nothing of that 
kind, i don’t propose to treat it seiiously.” 

‘ That depends.” remarked Sir Robert, with emphasis. 

” On me!” thrilled Mrs. Hodge, who had been sitting on thorns, 
and was resolved to brave Lady Marmyon. 

Sir Robert cast a glance on his wife, as much as to say, ” we can 
not avoid that conclusion,” but Lady Marmyon in response shrugged 
her shoulders. She thought Sir Robert a weak fool, who might 
crush a conspiracy under the iron heel of despotism, if only he pos- 
sessed the necessary virility. 

” And what proof have you, Mrs. Hodge?” drawled Mr. Orphrey. 

Mrs. Hodge was about to give considerable rein to that little 
member of hers which could be long enough, on occasions— her 
lingual development — when another interruption occuiied, and her 
mouth for the nonce was closed. 

William, the complacent Mercury, entered with 'Errol’s letter, 
which he handed to Lady Marmyon. 

But Sir Robert had caught sight, in transitu, of the writing, and 
an angry flush lit up his countenance as he asked, impulsively, 
” who brought this letter?” 

William answered, indifferently, ” Hodge, Sir Robert.” 

” Hodge!” 

"Yes. Robert Hodge, Sir Robert.” 

" Is he here?’' 

*‘ Yes, Sir Robert. He’s in the servants’ hall, waiting for an an- 
swer.” 

" He need not wait. 1 will send a reply,” cried my lady, hastily. 

" Slop,” said Sir Robert, to whom both Errol’s handwriting and 
the mystery environing it were most disquieting. " Tell Robert 
Hodge to come here— at once.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

LIKE TO LIKE. 

Robert Hodge, with his quick, lithesome step marched straight 
into the library to face, not as he expected, the baronet alone, but a 
grouped assemblage all mute as at a Quakers’ meeting. In the cen- 
ter at the table sat Sir Robert, to his right being Lady Marmyon and 
Mr. Orphrey, to his left Hester, Widow Gipps, and Martha Hodge. 

As he entered, and stood at the table like Shakespeare before the 
justice of the peace, Sir Robert addressed him quietly, yet with the 
semblance of ill-usage. 

" 1 have sent for you,” he said, " because we have been informed 
just now by your— ahem — mother, your reputed mother, that you 
stand to us in relation of claimant; that in future we must regard 
you as one who aspires to be recognized by us.” 

If Sir Robert had delivered himself of a sentence in High Hutch, 
or had spoken the gibberish which the Xrvingites interpret as the 


106 UNDER WHICH KING? 

language of the other world, Robert Hodge could not have locked 
more unutterably puzzled. 

*• Claimantl” he echoed. “ What do 1 claim? ^ Nothing, Sir Rob- 
ert. I’ve only one thought in the future — America 1” 

“The boy don’t know nothing. Sir Robert,’' pleaded Martha 
Hodge. “ Let 1 tell ’un.” 

“ He good enough to keep silence,” said Sir Robert, sternly, add- 
ing, “ Young man, is it the fact that you are ignoraut of the claims 
put forward on your behalf by that woman there?” 

Robert glanced round angrily at Mrs. Hodge. Then he replied, 
impatiently, “ I’ve no idea what yOu’re talking about. Whatever 
Mrs. Hodge has asked for on my account, she’s asked without my 
leave, and against my will. 1 aon’t ask.” 

“ She has not asked!” remarked the baronet. “ She has demand- 
ed.' She has entered a claim. 1 had better tell him what it is, had 
I not, Mr. Orphrey?” 

“It can do no harm,” responded the clergyman. 

“The claim,” said Sir Robert, with solemnity, “ is this, that you 
are not the son of John and Martha Hodge, but of myself and Lady 
Marmyon, and, as a corollary, that my son, wLo is up stairs between 
life and death, is hers.” 

Robert Hodge drew a long deep breath, smiled faintly, then re 
surned his aspect of quiet defiance. 

“ This is new to me,” he replied, “ and 1 don't know how to take 
it, lor even if it be true, and not a dream occasioned by gin-and- 
water. I’m not fit to be your son or her ladysliip’s. I’m better 
qualified to seek my fortune across the Atlantic, and I’d rather do 
so than fasten myself on to people of your sort, Sir Robert. Do not, 
therefore, let the notion trouble your mind. There’s in all likeli- 
hood nothing in it, and if there is I’m not the man to take advantage 
of it. Sir Robert and Lady Marmyon, if you happen to be my father 
and mother, pray do not suppose 1 forget that there’s a gulf between 
us, I am one of the people. You are of a class that is apart, and 
depend on it 1 would never shame you.” 

Sir Robert’s countenance was a study as he heard this proud 
avowal. Every syllable of it seemed to confirm the allegation of 
Martha Hodge. Moreover there was a soipelhing in the young fel- 
low’s expiession which reminded him insensibly of the looking-glass 
of twenty-five years ago. The resemblance, loo, he remembered, 
had struck him before ever he had a suspicion of the youth’s identity, 
and now seemed to appeal vehemently to his conscience. He was 
for the nonce dumb, nonplussed, stupefied. 

But Lady Marmyon hastened to the rescue. She knerv her hus- 
band’s temper. She knew of old that while he would screw his 
tenants and begrudge his laborers their wage, when his’sense of honor 
was touched he was softer than a Bayard. “ The young man,” she 
observed, “ speaks very properly. He deserves our esteem lor his 
spirit of independence,” 

“Yes,” added Mr, Orphrey, glibly, “ I’m sure Robert would be 
the very last to take his stand on an imaginary right.” 

“■He can do as he likes,” cried Martha Hodge. “ If he’s too silly 
to hold his own more’s the pity. And you, *my lady, must please 
yourself about denying your own flesh and blood. I’ve done my 


UKDEK WHICH KIITG? , 107 

duty, and all 1 have to say is, if you gentle people didn’t come and 
force poor working women to throw aside nature and abandon their 
babes just born tor the sake of your little uns, there’d be no tempta- 
tion ever put in the way ot such as 1 was. Robert— there’s your 
father, and there’s your mother. It’s truth, Robert; and I’ve robbed 
you of them all these years. They won’t own to you, Robert, that 
1 know; but it you baint worse than an idiot you won’t release 
them. They are yours to hold, with the reversion of every stick in 
this house, and all their broad acres.” 

“ You hear her, Robert Hodge?” sneered the baronet, who was 
piqued at being thus bearded. ‘‘You hear her, and, if you are as 
wise as you are well intentioned, you will not heed her insane 
words. My poor son Plantagenet may yet — ” 

” Dr. Shadtort!” 

And in bowled that illustrious physician, all bustle, having missed 
his train at Victoria, and eager to get back. 

He barely had time to shake hands with Lady Marmyon when 
Martha Hodge walked up to him, and, placing her hand on his arm, 
said: ” Will you, as a favor to me, doctor, cast an e3"e on that young 
man there, and on Sir Robert, and say if they are at all made alike?” 

The challenge was bold, impudent, intrusive, but Sir Robert was 
not the man to refuse it. ” Humor Die woman,” he said, ‘‘ if you 
will, doctor.” 

Dr. Shadfort scrutinized the elder and the younger man critically 
with the eye of a physiognomist. Then he made them both right- 
about-face, and noted the cerebellum and neck ot each carefully, 
wondering in his mind whether this was or was not an illegitimate 
son of the baronet, and whether he cared to repudiate him. 

‘‘ Well,” asked Sir Robert, ‘‘do j'ou perceive any similarity of 
conformation between us? 1 want your candid opinion.” 

But for these last words it was on the tip of the judicious doctor’s 
tongue to pooh-pooh similarity and to magnify the slight points ot 
difference, though obviously they were occasioned by the relative 
ages of the two Roberts. When, however, he was requested to 
speak out he delivered himself oracularly and categorically. 

‘‘ A remarkable identity ot structure In the limbs, especially in the 
tendency of a goitre throat in each.” 

‘‘There!” ejaculated Martha Hodge, ‘‘ ‘tis as if an angel had 
come from Heaven to bear witness!” 

‘‘ A resemblance, too, of the facial muscles, but not ot the shape 
ot the eyes. Let me see— how shall 1 describe the difference? Sir 
Robert’s eye is convex, slightly, indicating a talent for language. 
This young man’s is not the reverse— that would be unnatural. It 
is, however, almost level. Ha! I have it. Your ladyship’s eye is 
precisely similar in structure to his,” 

‘‘Again! again!” laughed Martha. ‘‘’Tis an angel’s voice, in- 
deed!” 

Lady Marmy'on tried to smile, but bit her lip and flushed to the very 
roots ot her hair, for Mr. Orphrey was regarding hei with an expres- 
sion of critical curiosity very trying indeed. 

‘‘ The cerebellum and nape of the neck, the pose of the shoulder 
in front and behind, the shape of the nails and finger -joints, the lobe 


IDS UNDER WHICH KING? 

of the ear, and the tone of voice, all are parallel. The similarity of 
profile too, is obvious enough.” 

“Thanks,” laughed in an artificial way the diplomatic baronet. 
“ AVe were discussing the striking resemblanceu-hetween this young 
man and myself when you came m, and you have assured us of its 
reality. The Kentish breed, 1 suppose— the same in lord and labor- 
er, eh? And now, doctor, not to detain you, will you go upstairs 
and see your patient?” 

] A little surprised at being sufiered to go up alone, the doctor left, 
with Mrs, Prat ling only for a cicerone. In vain Lady Marmyon 
whispered aloud to her husband, “ Robert, won’t you accompany 
Dr. Shadfort?” her suggestion met with no g-esponse, for the baro- 
net had something in his throat which he felt must be said. 

The doctor, however, had but just quitted the apartment, and Sir 
Robert had motioned to all to remain, for Robert Hodge was evi- 
dently anxious to escape, when the door opened stealthily, and 
there sneaked into the room with a guilty, nervous face, Errol 
Marmyon. 

His father did not condescend to look at him, neither did he take 
any notice of his salutation ; in fact, the very fact of his intrusion in 
the face of the parental prohibition caused his sire to utter far more 
forcibly than he would otherwise. 

“My friends,” said Sir Robert, “I am not one of those who 
measure all things human and divine by their own predilections. 
For many years 1 have sat on our local judicial bench, and it would 
ill become one who has been a judge to exhibit blind partiality or to 
ignore the weight of evidence. * As my son Errol is in the room it is 
perhaps as well that he should understand that it has been asserted 
that Robert there, hitherto known to us as Robert Hodge, is in 
reality his elder brother. ” 

“ "What!” gasped Errol. 

“ Don’t interrupt, if you please. Be content to hear. At first 1 
did not think that the evidence adduced in favor of this extraordi- 
nary proposition was worthy either of credence or of consideration, 
but my opinion, though it has altered but little in regard of the 
former, has altered materially in favor of the latter. AVe have 
heard enough to-night to justify us in forming an opinion that the 
story of Martha Hodge may be true. 1 can only assure you, there- 
fore, Robert, that as a man of integrity, who desires to do unto 
others as he would be done by, 1 shall not leave this matter unin- 
vestigated, and, in the interim, shall hold my judgment in suspense. 
But of this rest assured — if j^our case should be proved to my be- 
lief, so that 1 am convinced of its truth, you will have no cause to 
complain of me. 1 have been and ever shall be, while 1 breathe, a 
father to my sons, and if — owing to an accident which is not his 
;• fault — 1 have in this world a son who has not been trained and 
educated as my son should be, 1 shall not turn my back upon him. 
r 1 will battle for his rights, and extend to him the aid and protection 

^ of a parent. 1 am, my friend, and 1 own it, a proud man, but my 

f pride is not petty, and my sense of obligation shall never be blunted 

t' by prejudice, still less by vulgarity. On the other hand, if 1 should 

fi learn that an attempt had been made, on no other basis than men- 


UNDER WHTCH KING? 109 

dacity, to wrong me and my house, 1 am still able to protect myself 
and those who belong to me.” 

” Robert,” murmured Lady Marmyon, in a' low tone, ‘‘you are 
very quixotic and very unguarded. You should speak for me as 
well as yourself. 1 am interested, surely.” 

” And 1,” hissed Errol, between his teeth. 

‘‘ ll 1 may venture to intrude an observation,” ventured Mr. 
Orphrey, ‘‘ it is that happily for all parties we are not the judge and 
not the jury in this case. Sir Robert only maintains his character 
tor equity when h^promises not to prejudge its merits, and 1 have no 
doubt that whatever action is taken by him or by Lady Marmyon 
will be based on the lines of strict fairness— that is of Christianity.” 

‘‘Oh, yes,” sighed Lady Marmyon, ‘‘we shall always, 1 trust, 
act justly, at whatever sacrifice of personal feeling.” 

“ You hear that,” observed the baronet, advancing to Robert, and 
placing his hand on the young man’s shoulder. ” Your cause is 
sate in our hands.” 

” But not in mine,” almost sobbed Errol, breaking passionately 
from his mother’s side and striding up to the middle of the large 
room where were standing his father and Robert. ‘‘But not in 
mine. I’ll combat your claim from court to court. I’ll tight you 
up to the House of Lords, and there’s no fear that they will decide 
in favor.” 

‘‘Their judgments are unimpeachable,” answered Sir Robert, 
indignantly. To question the wisdom of the Upper House was in 
his eyes the quintessence of communism. 

‘‘ Except in ecclesiastical causes,” smiled Mr. Orphrey. 

Robert, slightly bewildered, looked on Errol, and was startled to 
see that young gentleman’s dark face positively livid with fury It 
was indeed passing strange that to one man the honor and glory of 
Marmyon meant so little, to the other so much. And the oddity of 
it all was, that the covetous man though not rich was not poor, 
while the other had not a sovereign in his possession. 

” 1 wouldn’t it 1 were you bark before 1 was bitten, Mr. Errol,” 
he remarked. ‘‘ If you only knew how little 1 care to be a fish but 
of water, to be the ass in the lion’s shin, you wouldn’t fret. A few 
acres of land and a cow in the States will satisfy me. But thank 
you. Sir Robert, all the same.- Y^ou’ve given me a better opinion of 
you and your order than 1 had before. If 1 may say so without 
offense, you seem to be as honorable as one of us — one of the men 
who only eat what they earn.” 

” Good-night!” was Sir Robert’s rejoinder. The ring of the Re- 
publican metal in those last words rather jarred on his ear. Besides, 
it accentuated the difference between Robert the baronet and Robert 
the laborer rather uncomfortably, and forced him to own to himself 
that my lady’s worldly wisdom was a frailty in which he was de- 
ficient, rather regrettably. 

And so they began slowly to troop out of the library, when sud- 
denly Dr. Shadfort reappeared and instinctively they all paused to 
hear his verdict. 

‘‘The patient,” he said, with deliberation, but cheerily, ‘‘has 
passed through the crisis. He will recover — with due care and 
attention. In fact 1 need not see him to-morrow unless a change 


r^TBER WHICH KIXO? 


110 

for the worse takes place, and that 1 regard as virtually impos- 
sible.” 

” What’s that?” gasped Martha Hodge. 

‘‘The patient, my good woman, is out of danger. He will be 
convalescent in a fortnight.” 

“ Lawk!” groaned Martha, ” and for me to have let the cat out 
of the bag. Well, 1 never! If 1 ain’t made a mess of it!” 

* it * * * 

That night Plantagenet sat up in bed and asked tor his lather. 

Nurse Pratling replied vaguely that Sir Robert had a goodish bit 
to worry him, and was with my lady in the drawing-room a talkiu’ 
it over, though it was midnight. 

” But,” said tne young man, “ he will come to me if you ask him. 
He will come gladly. My father loves me. ” 

” ITl ask him,” replied the nurse, in a tone of dubiety. 

And she did ask him, and was told to say that Sir Robert was un- 
able to come upstairs then, as he had something very particular to 
discuss with Lady Marmyon. 

“ Perhaps,” murmured the sick man, ” it was all a dream; but it 
was a swek dream. Since 1 was a child 1 don’t seem to have had 
any one to love me. My mother made a favorite of Errol. My 
father dragooned me, but was seldom kind. 1 dreamed, however, 
that Sir Robert came to my bedside and spoke such loving words as 
made my heart thrill. But 1 suppose it was all an illusion. , I will 
try to sleep and dream again. ” 

And so the wearied man turned his face to the wall with all the 
bitter feeling of being indeed an alien in his own house. 

In the meanwhile the baronet and his cara spera were indulging 
in a wrangle, almost with the buttons oft their foils. 

‘‘1 never could acknowledge that creature as my son,” pouted 
my lady. ” Plantagenet is bad enough, but we have taught him to 
respect the aspirate, and to assume the bearing of a gentleman. He 
is wofully inferior to Errol, still—” 

” 1 can not admit that,” rejoined the baronet. ‘‘ Plantagenet is 
manly, honest, simple. Of course, he is ingrainedly boorish-, and — 
to be candid — he is himself an argument in favor of Mrs. Hodge’s 
story. Fancy, Plantagenet Hodge! What a bathos!” 

” It’s nonsense to talk about an3dhing so silly,” protested Lady 
Marmyon. “ If you had a grain of common-sense or good-feeling 
you w'ould nip it in the bud.” 

” 1 have a respect for right,” replied Sir Robert, severely. ” If 
this man, Robert Hodge, is really our first-born, w’hat right have we 
to rob him of his inheritance in order to secure it for the child of 
John and Martha Hodge?” 

“There are too many ‘its’ about it,” remarked her ladyship, 
meditatively. “ Granted that all along I’ve had such a rooted an- 
tipathy to Plantagenet that it hardly surprises me to be told he is 
none of mine, still, how can 1, how can you, regard in the light 
of our eldest son a fellow taken from the plow-tail and the public- 
house? Have you no stmse of satire? The notion is really ridic- 
ulous, and we "should be the laughing-stock of the county if sad- 
dled with such a monster of vulgarity. No. Trust to a woman’s 
wit. 1 see the way through the thicket, l ou must bring pressure 


U2S''DER WHICH KIHG? Ill 

on Planny to join 5 ^ou in breaking the entail of the estate. Then 
you must resettle it on Errol, who is not our hypothetical son, but 
indisputably a Marmyon pur sang.’‘ 

Sir Robert took up the poker and hammered aw ay at a huge lump 
of coal. Then he remarked, rather peevishly, “ Your plan would 
not answer. You can not break an entail without adequate con- 
sideration, besides which Robert Hodge could apply to the Court ot 
Chancery against any such arrangement, and readily esfhblish his 
claim both to the title and to the estate under the entail. As for 
Errol, 1 am by no means proud of him. Say w’hat you will, he has 
shown in this business a black heart.” 

“You are very harsh and censorious,” pleaded Lady Marmyon. 
“ Errol was tempted by jealousy to fall in with Dr. Lembic’s 
sclieme; but it is that man with his revolting and cruel disposition, 
who is the demon, not our poor boy. Why, what brought him here 
to brave your wrath?” 

“ 1 don’t know,” yawned the baronet, as one who would rather 
not listen. 

“ Simply this. He was afraid that this medicine— this antidote, 
as I believe it to be — had not arrived, as you did not reply to Dr. 
Lernbic’s wire, and so he journeyed with it all the way from Ox- 
ford, If that was not good-hearted I am deceived indeed,” 

“It may have been dread of the gallow’s. It may have been re- 
pentance,” observed Sir Robert. “ 1 wish 1 could think it was the 
latter. 1 wish 1 could change ray opinion about Errol.” 

“Well,” continued her ladyship, “ anyhow the medicine has 
done its work. You heard what Dr. Shadfort said— the man’s life 
is safe.” 

“ Yes,” mused her husband, “it is so— and for Errol’s sake let 
us be thankful, for I’m certain Martha Hodge would have hanged 
him, or tried to do so, if the case had been fatal, lieyond a doubt, 
whether she is under a delusion or not, the woman is madly, pas- 
sionately fond ot Planny.” ^ 

“ And yet she has had to stifle any expression of that feeling till 
to-day?” 

“ Quite so. Rut in the interest of Planny! She hoped to live to 
see him perched on his pinnacle, and perhaps, after 1 was gone and 
he had come unjustly into his kingdom she would have told her tale 
and earned the reward of her iniquity. . Who knows?” 

“ She is either a knave or a lunatic,” muttered my lady. 

“ A knave!” answered Sir Robert, “ and one who gained her end 
by the easy process of keeping her mouth shut. Had she told her 
secret to her husband, John, it would have oozed out. Widow 
Gipps seems to have suspected it from the first, but Martha Hodge 
never uttered a syllable in the way ot hint to justify that suspicion 
till the moment arrived, and my humble conviction is that, so little 
does she care tor her reputed son Robert, she would never have 
broken her seal — even if Planny had succumbed — but for the acci- 
dent which revealed to her Erroi’s villainy. It her tale be true she 
has, in attacking Errol, ruined the chances of her own son. How- 
ever, as things 'are, the battle will have to he fought between who 
is in possession, and Robert, the claimant, Our role clearly is neu- 
trality.” 


11 '^ 


U^’DEK WHICH KING? 


“ 1 am not so cleai’ about that,” said Lady Marmyon. ” What 
we do need at once is legal advice ot the highest character, and that 
should be obtained without delay.” 

” Ah!” ejaculated Sir Robert, bitterly. ” The sword of Solomon 
could not decide between these two, and both are equally a bad 
bargain.” 

‘‘ Then,” urged Lady Marmyon, ‘‘ shunt them both. Send Hodge 
to America— he wants to go — then give Plann}’’ the chpice either of 
breaking the entail and taking his portion now, once and forever, or 
of standing the fire ot Hodge with you at that claimant’s back. 
Planny will cave in. He would keep the reversion ot the title, tor 
ot course Hodge would be bound under a irenalty not to clairh it; 
but that’s the least part of the evil, and may be dismissed. To pro- 
ceed with the programme— you would then settle all that was left 
on Errol, who would go into Parliament, and might, if he played 
his cards well, secure in the long-run a peerage, or at all events an- 
other baronetcy. ” 

Sir Robert pondered a long minute. Then he said, firmly, ” 'iour 
programme possesses the strong merit ot worldly^ wisdom, but it is 
in ^essence unjust. You award the supposititious child a title, and a 
round sum; you cut the real heir adrift, and send him off to the ends 
of the earth. Ts that Christian?” 

” Christianity,” rejoined my lady, “consists in keeping up ap- 
pearances. For instance, it is not essential to Christianity that one 
should sacrifice one’s good name — for an abstract idea.” 

“ One’s talents, 1 admit,” said Sir Robert, “ are ^iven one to be 
er — ah — utilized, and of course among one's talents must be reck- 
oned as most precious an ancient name and an unblemished 
escutcheon. ’ You are correct there. ’ ’ 

“Yes, dear,” pleaded the artful lady, coaxingly. “ 1 felt sure 
that when you once came to view this painful dilemma all round you 
would be guided to a just conclusion. Here we are with a son said 
to be ours ydiom it is impossible to acknowledge without disgrace, 
and with a son said to be not ours for ^hom we entertain iiot even 
the semblance ot affection. ” 

“ There 1— er — ah differ. 1 have lately got to be attached to 
Planny.” 

Lady Marmyon opened her eyes. “ Very lately,” she rejoined, 
with a sarcastic smile. “Faugh! that is all sentimentality. We 
have nothing to do really with either ot these young men. But with 
Errol the case is altogether different. He is ours by birth, b}*^ associa- 
tion. He is ours physically, mentally, socially. We had better tor 
the future consider that we have only one son.” 

Sir Robert sighed. 

“ 1 suppose it must be so,” he said, “ but 1 would that it w’ere in 
my power to make the vile woman Hodge smart for her sin. 

“ Never mind her. You agree to my programme?” 

The baronet did acquiesce in it — reluctantly. Nevertheless the 
thought flashed across his brain Ih'dt la fem7ne propese, mais ne disposi 

PCLS. 


Uis'DER WHICH KIXG? 


113 


CHAPTER XV. 

PERKIN WARBECK’S DISILLUSIONMENT. 

A FORTNIGHT, US Dr. Sbadfoi’t predicted, sufficed to bring Planta- 
genet Marmyon •within distance of convalescence. During that 
period he was kept in absolute ignorance of the sword of Damocles 
that was superimpending his devoted head. To avoid the extreme 
awkwardness of the situation, too. Sir Robert and his wife, having 
put off the visit of Mrs. Frankalmoign and Ida on the plea of having 
a sick house, departed for Christmas to Bournemouth, Errol, at her 
ladyship’s earnest request, accompanying them. Plantagenet, 
relegated to the society of Nurse Pratling, thought it unfeeling that 
his parents should have thus deserted him, nor did he fail to take a 
Inental note of the fact that Errol was restored to favor. Still he was 
not a man much addicted to fretting, or to manufacturing mental 
mole-hills into mountains, so he stuok to his business of getting 
•VN’ell. His' face already had begun to heal, though the marks were 
such as he would bear to his dying day. His arm, of course, was 
still in a sling, and he was very weak; but his appetite was already 
returning, and he was able to get about the house and amuse him- 
self during the long hours of solitude with novels and society papers. 

The first hint he heard of there being a mystery in the background 
was given him by the behavior of the servants. There was note- 
worthy in tlieir conduct to him a certain unwillingness in lieu of 
their normal alacrity. He might ting the bell half a dozen times 
and it would not be answered. Xobody seemed to care to wait on 
him, and but for Kurse Pratling, whose attentions were unremitting 
he might have been occasionally dinuerless. Dr. ^hadfort’s visits 
had been summarily stopped, Sir Robert having, as he said, no mind 
to pay fees of thirty guineas for the sake of anonymuncules, nor 
were they supplemented by those of the local doctor. He was, in 
short, left to get well as best he might, and perhaps that was not a 
little in his favor. 

One morning he had been reading a novel of Miss Braddon for an 
hour or more, and being engrossed let the fire in the library sink to 
the level of a few embers. It was cold enough, being Yuletide, and 
he rang the bell to have tlie fiie relighted. No response. Then he 
rang again. Still no answer. Yet again. The same result. Angered at 
this treatment he shouted aloud for William, and at last that superb 
personage lolled in, 

“ What’s the meaning of this, William?” 

William turned down the corners of his mouth and replied, 
haughtily, ” Meanm’! What’s the meanin’ of givin’ yourself such 
blessed hairs, Plantagernet? Don’t yoiu go to give me none of your 
bloomin’ cheek, young man. Want coals, do ye? Then fetch ’em 
yourself. 1 sha’n’ t. ’ ’ 

Plantagenet started to his legs, and the blood rushed to his pale 
forehead. This was the style of thing to which he was utterly un. 
jiccustomed. 


114 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


“ You’ll leave the house at once for your impudence, fellow.’* 

" Feller! Oh, you calls me feller, does yer, Planiagenet What’s- 
yer-name? A quid to a tizzy you leaves afore 1 do.” 

” What! Are you mad?” 

” ’Orf my chump? No, not me. I’m the servant of Sir Robert 
Marmyon, and wery proud 1 am to serve so good a master, and my 
lady too, and any one as bears the name of Marmyon.” 

” Then why this gross insolence?” 

“ You’d better ask Mr. Hodge, of the Marmyon Arms, Mr. Plan- 
tagernet What’s-yer-name.” And with a loud burst of scornful 
laughter William disappeared, slamming the door behind him. 

If Plantagenet had not been crippled and weak William would 
have thought twice before thus insulting a giant, whose prowess was 
in truth magnificent. He was, however, on safe ground, for a con* 
valescent after typhoid possesses the potentiality of a baby. 

Plantagenet, therefore, sat down in the chilly chamber, took up 
Miss Braddon and tried to read. But it was no use. He shivered, 
being bloodless, and the utterance of the flunky William kept echo- 
ing and re-echoing in his ears. At last in despair belaid the volume 
down, and walked upstairs to Nurse Pratling, who was seated in a 
very cozy snuggery, with a bright beechen log on her fire, banked up 
by iiop-poles. 

” Well, nurse,” began the invalid rather drearily, “ you see 1 have 
come to beg a warm at your fire. The atmosphere in the library is 
icy.” 

“ More foolisher of you^ sir, not to keep a warm room. Fancy 
now it you^ was to get a chill! A relapse it would be and no mis- 
take.” 

” It doesn’t seem to signify much to the people of this house,” he 
remarked with acerbity, ” whether 1 live or die.” 

” Ah,” rejoined the nurse, ” that’s low spirits, that’s what it is, 
Mr. Plantagenet. But you’ll soon be 3 ’^ourself again.” 

He did not notice her, but sitting down began to warm his hands 
and feet, his features wearing the expression of what is termed a 
brown-study. 

At last, after a very long pause, he asked, in a low tone, ” Is it, or 
is it not, the case that Sir Robert came and sat by my bedside and 
said that he loved me, and that if 1 died it would break his heart?” 

” He said all that, sir, and a deal more in my very hearing. ’ 

“ You are quite sure, nurse?” 

” As sure as that the nose is on my face. Why should 1 go to 
deceive you?” 

Just so. But then— after that it seems strange that both my father 
and mother should have left when mj’^ life was supposed to be hang- 
ing in the balance, and without a syllable of farewell! There’s not 
much sign of heart-breaking or common parental affection in that.” 

Nurse fidgeted, ;ind remarked evasively, and apropos of nothing 
in particular, that ” she didu^x know.” 

” But, nurse, you surely must be able to assign some reason tor 
this extraordinary and barbarous conduct. The very servants seem, 
to comprehend that my father treats his eldest son with cool indiffer- 
ence. At all events that is the conclusion 1 am driven toby the 
Impudent conduct of that scoundrel, William.” 


UNDER WHICH KINCx? 115 

Again nurse fidgeted, and again she frajned an idiotic and evasive 
reply to the etiect that to account for her betters’ doings was “ not 
her place/’ though as regards the contumacious William she did not 
hesitate to affirm categorically that he deserved a horsewhipping. 

Plantagenet, never very brilliant of intellect, telt completely 
fogged. To resist the presentiment of evil w^as impossible, for it 
seemed to haunt him, and dog his footsteps at every turn. More- 
over, the mischief, whatever it was, being enveloped in mystery, 
tried his patience all the more severely. No marvel, therefore, that 
in a fit of almost puerile petulance he exclaimed, “ I’d give fifty 
pounds to know what it all means.” 

“ Better keep your fifty pounds in your purse,” observed nurse sen- 
tentiously; “ not so many of ’em in this world as what they’re sure 
to be missed sooner or later.” 

“Faugh!” said he, contemptuously, “fifty pounds one way or 
the other makes little difference.” 

“To some it do, to others it don’t!” aphorized Nurse Pratling. 
The words, reiterating the advice to be careful, sounded peculiar to 
the invalid. They were friendly and they were also suggestive. 
What could it mean? Here was a man, heir under strict entail to 
an estate which in prosperous times had exceeded in value twenty- 
thousand a year, and now averaged above fifteen thousand, recom- 
mended- seriously to be careful about a paltry fifty pounds. What 
could have happened? 

“lam perfectly certain, nurse, that there is something in the wind, 
though of its nature 1 am in ignorance. If you are wiser than 1 am 
1 will make it worth your while to treat me as a confidant.” 

But nurse was silent. 

“ Tell me,” said he, “tim 1 to account for William’s insolence by 
this myslery, or whatever it may be?” 

“You can do as you like, sir. All 1 can say is that when Sir 
Robert comes to hear of his man-servant’s behavior it will be hot for 
William.” 

“ Yes, yes; 1 can answer for that. Sir Robert would never permit 
a son of his to be insulted by a servant. Faugh! Absurd!” 

“ Nor yet,” added Mrs. Pratling, “ allow William to give hisself 
airs to anybody as w’as living under his roof.” 

“ Airs!” echoed the young gentleman. “ Airs indeed! Why, he 
called me Plantagenet What’s-j^our-name, and w'hen 1 demanded 
what he meant, said I’d better go and inquire of old Mother Hodge, 
the woman that keeps the public-house in the village.” 

“ Oh!” remarked Mrs. Pratling, with a very serious and annoyed 
looK. “ He mentioned the name of Mrs. Hodge, did he? Just like 
his vulgar, low-bred imperence. Servants of his sort, sir! There, 1 
don’t call ’em servants; 1 calls ’em Judasses, 1 does.” 

Plantagenet’s slow brain all of a sudden seemed to get a touch of 
the truth. 

“So,” suggested he, “ William ought not to have quoted Mother 
Hodge to me. Is that so?’' 

“ Perhaps lie did ought, or. mayhap, he didn’t ought. But, if 
you’ll excuse me, sir, you’re asking over many questions.” 

“I’ll ask no more,” he replied, and rising, walked down- stairs. 


110 UNDER WHICH KING? 

put on a thick coat and wrapper, seized a stout stick, and walked 
out of his old home, as events proved, on a lon^]^ journey. 

Had Nurse Pratling been aware of his intention she would have 
prevented him, tor he ought not to have risked the icy temperature 
ot December scksoou after leaving his bed of peril. As it was, she 
rather rejoiced at having got rid other importunate cross-questioner, 
and composed herselt to needle- work quite luxuriously. 

Plantagenet staggered rather than walked down the avenue,, out 
into the high-road, so into the village, and then across the green to 
the Marmyon Arms. The bar was full of bibbers; he therefore 
walked quietly round to the private entrance, and rapped imperious- 
ly for admittance. 

The door was opened by Robert Hodge, who stared as at an ap- 
parition, flushed up to the eyes, and in a tone of quiet independence 
asked, “ What can 1 do for you, sir?” 

“ Let me in before 1 get my death,” returned Plantagenet, in a 
sepulchral tone. ” Is your mother at home? 1 wish to see her — 
on a matter ot some importance, perhaps.” 

Robert stood aside, passed the big invalid with the broken arm 
into the back parlor, gave him a seat, and then summoned his 
mother from the recesses of the bar, where she was serving fools 
with poison they could none of them afford to pay for without rob- 
bing their children’s stomachs. 

” Mrs. Hodge, sit down, will you? And you, Robert, need not 
leave the room; 1 have come here to-day at considerable risk to ask 
you a plain question or tvro. May 1 beg you, in return, to give me 
a straightforward answer? You- have reminded me more than once 
ot the debt 1 owe you for having nursed me in babyhood. If the 
tie then created should mak^you regard me with friendly feelings, 1 
am confident you will be candid witn me.” 

And he paused in the middle of his exordium, being startled to see 
a tear in Martha Hodge’s eye and a tendency in her lips to twitch. 

“ G — go on!” she stammered as though trying to suppress a sob. 
“ G— go on. 1 know what’s a-coming, and what a fool 1 made of 
myself.” 

‘‘Fool is hardly the word,” sneered Robert, glancing over his 
shoulder. 

” Well,” snapped she, ” don’t you grumble. Suppose 1 had held 
my blessed tongue, what then?” 

‘‘ 1 don’t know, neither can 1 guess to what you allude,” said 
Plantagenet, imperiously; ” but enough. 1 wdll come to the point at 
once— without further preface.” 

Yet somehow he looked rather at a loss how to achieve this feat, 
for he passed his hand over his forehead as though to collect his 
thoughts. Then he proct'cded leisurely, indeed hesitatingly ; 

‘‘ Our man, William, who hilheito has never been wanting in re- 
spect, thought fit this morning to be grossly insolent. Among other 
insolences he was pleased to style me as Mr. Plantagenet What’s- 
your-name. And when 1 demanded the reason of this very objec- 
tionable conduct, all 1 could get out ot the rascal was ‘ You go and 
ask Mrs. Hodge.’ So here 1 am.” 

But Mrs. Hodge was whimpering and carrying on idiotically, like 
a woman guilty of some heinous ofiense, and in fact so overcome 


UNB-ER WHICH KTKH? IH 

Was the good woman with hysterical sobbing that she could not 
speak, or indeed utter aught except incomprehensible gulps and 
miserable moans. 

“ This is all very inexplicable!” cried Plantagenet, turning impa- 
tiently to Robert. ” Perhaps you, my good lellow, can explain. 
Hey?” 

” Certainly 1 can. But perhaps you’d rather not hear. Perhaps 
you’d better deter the explanation till you’re in health again.” 

There was a proud ring in this ot an adversary. Possibly Robert 
may have recollected his visit tq Maidstone' jail. 

” I am well enough, thank you, to hear any news, however* bad, 
and brave enohgh, 1 trust, to bear it.” 

Robert meditated, until Mrs. Hodge gurgled forth, “You speak 
for me, Robert, 1 can’t say it.” 

Then he sat down opposite to Plantagenet — he had been standing 
deferentially— and in a low tone commenced with, ” What you ask 
me to reveal, sir, must be painful for you to hear, and it’s no pleas- 
ure for me to tell, for this reason, that 1 am a man who didn’t need 
a taste of skilly and oakum nicking to be taught his proper place in 
the world. However, that’s beside the mark. What Mrs. Hodge 
here wants me to confess to you refers to yourself in the first in- 
stance. Once again, can you bear it?” 

He might well say this, for Plantagenet’s lips were pallid, and his 
expiession was that of one preparing to receive a blow, and gather- 
ing together on that account his nervous energy. 

” Yes— man — yes. Goon.” 

‘‘How shall I put it, sir? Perhaps the simplest words are the 
fittingest. 1 will put it, therefore, in this way, that you are not what 
you have been supposed to be, neither am 1. My real name is Mar- 
my on ; your real name IS Hodge. ” 

Plantagenet, weak as he was, sprung to his legs as though he had 
been shot, staggered toward the window, and turned his back upon 
the pair. He could not or would not speak. 

” Aod I’m sure,” howled Mrs. Hodge, ” I’d never have betrayed 
you— you as is my own flesh and blood, you as Pd hoped would be 
the king ol this village — but for reasons as you shall hear all in good 
time, and when you hears ’em, you’ll forgive the mother that bore 
you for this grievous wrong.” 

‘‘ The word ” wrong ” seemed to arrest Plantagenet’s attention, 
for he suddenly faced Robert, and in a tone of urgency demanded, 
” Is it true?” 

“ 1 didn’t invent it. 1 don' care a rush whether it’s true or t’other 
thing. You don’t suppose 1 want to be a baronet!” 

‘‘ That is no answer to me. 1 repeat, is this true?” 

” On the evidence of Mrs. Hodge there, who says that she changed 
us at birth, of Widow Gipps, Hester Mazebrook, and Nurse Prat- 
ling, it is true.” 

‘‘ Nurse Pmtling?” 

“Yes.” 

” And does Sir Robert, does Lady Marmyon accept this story?” 

” That,” replied Robert, ” it is not for me to guess. It is rumored 
that they left the Court because— because — ” 

” Well— why?” 


TTNDEE WHICH KTHG? 


118 

“ Because it was awkward you lying ill and all. But that’s mere 
hearsa}^ 1 know nothing except that I’ve no desire to stand in your 
light. Years ago, it that wonian had not played me false, 1 might 
have been their son. It is tjpo late now. AVe are at the opposite ends 
ot the pole.” 

Again a dead silence, Plantagenet shading his eyes with the one 
hand he had for use. 

“If you’ll hear me,” at length interposed Martha Hodge, who 
liad recovered from her hiccoughy sobbing tit — ” if you’ll hear me 
I’ll tell you how it was.” 

Plantagenet gazed at her as in a dream, but he vouchsafed no 
reply, composing his features to attentiou, and looking like one who 
in the midst of whirling machinery or the noise of a macadamized 
thoroughfare is doing his best to listen. 

At first he hardly seemed to grasp what she said. He had al- 
ready comprehended the tact that he was alleged to be of plebeian 
instead of patrician origin, a pauper instead of a man of prospective 
wealth, and Martha’s tale of how this was effected hardly seemed to 
interest him. 'When, however, he heard of Errol’s heartless villainy, 
of the plot against his life, of its frustration owing to Robert — the 
very man whom he unintentionally had supplanted, and whom he 
had actually clapped in jail— his intelligence arose to the occasion, 
and he grasped the eutire situation clearly. 

Turning to his mother, he said, ” Woman, up at the Court there 
they have taught me to respect honor above all things. 1 can not 
thank you, therefore, for having made me the unwitting accomplice 
in a base fraud; neither do 1 blame you for i^onfessing it— on the 
contrary, terrible as the descent in the social scale is to me, 1 am 
glad to feel that 1 am no swindler. In justice to Robert here, as 
w'ell as to myself, 1 shall insist on his title being proved beyond 
contiavention. But after what 1 have heard, after what you have 
alleged, 1 am compelled to assume the absolute truth of your story, 
and regard myself as your son.” 

” Which, sir” — she could not escape the habit of calling him 
“sir” — ‘‘you’d do very WTons, and you’d only play the game of 
your enemy, that wicked man, Errol Marmyon. Robert hero, what 
do be say ? He say he’s not fit to be a baronet, and all that. He 
didn’t want the title, or the money, or the position. He’ve set his 
heart upon marrying Polly Williams and going to America. AVhat 
then’s to hinder me from declaring as all 1 said the other night, 
when, as 1 thought, you lay a-dyin’, "was nothing better nor wdiat 
folks calls a delusion? I’m willin’ to swear to it on my gospel oath, 
or anything else, if so be 1 could keep you where you w^as till 1 made 
that wicked stupid of myself — though it were to cook Mr. Errol’s 
goose for him.” 

Robert cast a side glance at Plantagenet to see how he would take 
this proposition. I he answer w’as straight. 

‘‘ Ho, Mrs. Hodge— mother, if mother you are. No tricks of that 
sort for me. 1 this man is heir, 1 will atone for the wrong I have 
done him by insisting on his rights. 1 will not only stand aside, 1 
will be nis advocate. If an Act ot Parliament should be necessary 
— as 1 anticipate it will be— it shad be obtained on my petition. No, 
no. The way, and the only way, to checkmate Errol is through the 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


119 


rightful heir under an entail that cannot be barred without that heir’s 
consent. Do you understand me, Robert?” 

“ You speak honorably. You speak like one who would scorn a 
mean and dirty action. Ic et till now 1 have looked upon you as an 
unprincipled bully. You’ve never interfered when you saw your 
fa — , that is to say Sir Robert, grinding the face of the poor. You 
never spoke a word to keep Widow Gipps out of the workhouse. 1 
can’t understand how it comes to pass tnat when you’re put to the 
test, and it ain’t a question of a florin in a week’s wage, one way or 
t’other, to a man as sorely needs it, but of fifteen thousand a year, 
you come out as bright as steel. ” 

‘‘ The error, my friend, is yours perhaps,” answered Plantagenet. 
” I’ve always acted on the principle that everything, including labor, 
is worth wliat it will fetch and no more, but because 1 am so far a 
Tory you need not thereby count me a rogue, i may be wrong, 
and perhaps, now that I’ve got to look forward to earning my bread, 
1 shall learn by bitter experience to modify my views.” 

” Earn your bread!” gasped Mrs. Hodge, in aihazement. 

‘‘Yes. Wh}-^ not? 1 have no ambition of starving ” 

‘‘ Sir Robert would never allow that.” 

‘‘ Excuse me, my good woman. What is Sir Robert jMarmyon to 
me? You can’t run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. This 
morning my name was Marmyon, and 1 had, as 1 supposed, the 
strongest claim on the man who was, by a singular fiction, styled 
my father. This evening I am Hodge. I’ve nothing in common 
with Sir Robert, and - as a matter of gratitude for the education 
and advantages he has given me hitherto — 1 shall not loaf about here 
and discredit or annoy him. But, so far from my having any claim 
on Sir Robert, he might demand equitably a large recompense for 
the heavy sums he has expended on me.” 

“Oh,” protested Martha Hodge, “that’s nonsense. Sir Robert 
will do the handsome thing, and if he won’t Robert here — for my 
sake— ought to. So you did ought, Robert.” 

“You utterly misconstrue me, my good woman. 1 could not ac- 
cept favors of the sort you indicate from Robert. You will pardon 
my saying so to your face, I am sure.” 

“ Why then,” whimpered Martha Hodge, “ my son’s a beggar.” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ But 1 heerd as you was to marry a rich young lady.” 

Plantagenet’s countenance gloomed over, and his voice trembled 
as he saTd, In a strange undertone, “Yes — was to; but that is all 
over now. Rich young ladies in this world do not marry Perkin 
Warbecks. If 1 marry at all, 1 shall select some girl of the Polly 
Williams sort, who won’t be ashamed of the awful name of Hodge, 
and 1 shall take her to Manitoba. Perhaps, Robert, 1 could do as 
well at farming virgin soil as you could. I’ve the muscles of the 
Hodge breed, and theii pluck, too.” 

“i hope,” replied Robert, respectfully, “you’ll do better than 
that, sir. Anyhow, please remember that the law has first to decide 
between us. Till then, had you not better consider yourself to be 
Bit- Robert’s son?” 

“ A thousand times, nol 1 am Hodge, Hodge, for evermore 
Hoilge. Mother, you must welcome your son home for the first 


UXDEU \VlTirn KT?sG? 

time since the day after his birth. Kobert, oblige me 
the Court and fetching my body-hnen. rhank Mrs. 
her kind attention, and tell them all, including llester, 
seen the last of Master Planny. Give my message as 

^^Mrs Hodge essayed remonstrance, but ineffectually. Her son’s 
determination was adamantine and immovable, and when she tried 
him with tears he sternly told her that his stay in her house would 
bt for a day or two only, until he recovered his strength. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

TWO MOVES ON THE BOARD. 

The next morning the whole country-side was ringing with the 
intelligence that Plantagenet Marmyon had quitted, what was styled 
Hibernically, his ancestral home and had taken up his quarters at the 
Marmyon Arms; and of course the invalid, whose recovery was not 
accelerated by news that could but cause him keen distress, more 
especially because he felt that Ida Frankalmoign was irretrievably 
parted from him, had to submit to some annoyance. First, Mr. 
Orphrey called and entreated him to return to the Court until the 
legality of Robert’s claim could be decided. On the same errand 
followed Farmer Rodd and half a dozen other leading tenants, and 
not a tew laborers, including -paradoxically— a poacher by whom 
he had dealt leniently when seated on the magisterial bench. To 
all he gave the same answer, Thank you for your sympathy, but 
I’ve taken the course 1 mean to abide by.” 

As soon as he had disposed of these visitors he sat down and 
wrote a budget of letters to his friends, including one to Ida Frank- 
almoign, releasing her from the shadowy tie that bound her, and 
ending with a heartfelt prayer that she might unite her lot with one 
worthy of her. Lastly, he wrote to Sir Robert, and as this is a let- 
ter of some importance it shall be given -m exUnso : 

“Dear Sir,” he wrote, ”1 have been made acquainted with 
certain data relative to my birth and parentage which led me to 
believe that you have been imposed upon, and 1 have been, without 
my knowledge or consent, placed in the position of impostor, in 
one word, that we are strangers, and that the tie which has hitherto 
bound us is spurious. To you 1 aip indebted for the possession of 
that principle of honor which at once induces me to abandon a name 
to which 1 never had any right, and a place under your roof which 1 
have usurped, i need not express my regret for the past, keenly as 
1 feel it, because 1 am not to blame. Rather 1 will offer you my deep 
thanlis for the care you have evinced tor my welfare. 1 consider 
that 1 shall be rendering the largest amends in my power by forth, 
with surrendering all claim to be your son or your heir, and by vol- 
unteering my cordial co-operation in securing his birthright to the 
man whom I have supplanted. 1 need not, 1 hope, add that 1 shall 
hasten to retire with as little delay as may be from a position to me 


by going to 
Pratling for 
that they’ve 
1 give it to 


121 


ITNDER WHICH IvIXC? 

SO cruelly equivocal. As soon as 1 learned the truth 1 promptly- 
quitted Marmyon Court, wlrere 1 could but regard myself as an in- 
truder and an interloper, and where already I haU become an object of 
derision and contempt to the servants. In fact I have, without loss 
of a moment, endeavored to enact the part of a humble but chival- 
rous unit — 1 cannot write myself gentleman, being nothing of the 
kind. 1 have requested the Lord Lieutenant to ask the Lord Chan- 
cellor to remove my name from the list of magistrates. I have re- 
signed ray membership of the Carlton and Turf Clubs. 1 have 
conscientiously striven to eflace myself and my bogus pretensions, 
and have publicly made reparation to the utmost of my power. 
Anything further that you may suggest as desirable to be done by me 
1 shall be ready to acquiesce in, and with my duty to Lady Marmy- 
on, 1 beg to subscribe myself, 

“ Yours respectfully, 

“ Plantagenet HodgEv 

“ To Sir Robert Marmyon, Bart.” ' 

We will follow this letter to its destination at Bournemouth. It 
arrived at break fast-time, and was read to his wife and son by Sir 
Robert — to render him justice — not without emotion. 

“ There!” he exxlaimed, ” Planny is not my son but my pupil, 
and 1 will say this much of him — er — ah, that if it had been myself 
— er — ah, that is to say, it 1 had \)een unexpectedly placed in his 
shoes, 1 could not have met an embarrassing situation more chival- 
rously, more in the spirit of a true gentleman.” 

Errol shrugged bis shoulders. “What earthly good could the 
man do,” he demanded, ” by going on the other tack? I really fail 
to perceive the supreme merit of throwing up the sponge when you 
are beaten.” 

“And I,” interposed Lady Marmyon, rather scornfully, ‘‘can- 
not help feeling surpiise that two members of the superior sex 
should read that person’s letter and utterly lose the point.” 

Errol laughed. 

‘‘ The point,” he remarked, ” of that individual’s drivel resembles 
Euclid’s point. It has no magnitude.” 

‘‘ The point,” said Sir Robert, ‘‘seems to me this — that whether 
lie’s Marmyon or Hodge, Planny ’s a downright good fellow.” 

“Yes,” sneered Lady Marmyon, ‘‘very good. Quite too good, 
my dear Robert! Why, what can you both be thinking about? Don’t 
you see through all that affectation of chivalry. The idea of a Hodge 
boasting the quality that appertains only to the mngazull Don’t 
you see that the fellow retires so abruptly, so ridiculously, in order 
to play the game of a far more dangerous enemy of ours — the actual 
claimant? Depend upon it, these two have put their heads together. 
They have joined forces ngainst us; and, probably, if the truth could 
be got at, we should discover that the one rogue abandons his claim 
on consideration of the other rogue going shares. Don’t you re- 
member the story of the card-sharpers? How a very innocent swin- 
dler went to sleep on a sofa in the room where another of his kidney 
was cheating a gentleman by means of loaded dice; and how he 
remained asleep till the geritleman left with empty pockets, and then 
opened both his eyes — he had had one closed before — and fired oft 


VrSDEU WHICH KTHG? 


one word only, ‘ Halves!’ Depend upon it, the low animal 1 used 
to foolishly try to persuade my skeptical conscience was my son has 
cleverly outgeneraled us. He has, while we supposed him too ill 
to stir outside the house, cleverly demanded ‘ halves ’ of that clod- 
hopping creature, JVlr. Robert Marmyon, and he’s secured it.” 

“you do them both injustice,” observed Sir Robert. “Rut 1 
.agree with you so far — Planny traverses our programme by yielding 
so precipitately, and he exhibits an antagonistic aim to ours when he 
proposes to support actively the claimant.” 

“That’s awkward,” suggested Errol; “still he’s done nothing. 
This chap, Robert Hodge— l.preter to call him Hodge— could easily be 
got out of the way, 1 should think, and then you’d have Mr. Plan- 
tagenet on the hip. If he’d fall in with your views and break the 
entail, he’d have an income; if not — ” 

“ Hold!” cried Sir Robert. “ A happy, happy thought, worthy 
of Mr. Rurnand himself. Suppose we get them both to join in 
breaking the entail? Hey, Lady Marmyon?” 

“ And suppose,” replied the lady, they both refuse? And sup- 
pose, it they want ready money, the}'' go to the Jews, and on their 
joint bond get w^hat they want? What W'ould then become of 
Errol?” 

“ You’ve got the brain of a Lord Chancellor, mother,” said the 
young man; adding, “ It’s not a bright outlook for me.” 

Sir Robert pressed his hand to his forehead; then he drank a cup 
of tea; then he turned round to his son, and delivered himself with 
the Oracular certainty of one both fertile in resources and also in the 
habit of sitting in judgment. 

“ You, boy, and your mother both dislike Planny and distrust him. 
Ido neither. But the more 1 ponder over the problem, the more 
clearly does it appear to me that he is not to be bribed or cajoled 
or tricked. Here, as elsewhere, honesty is the best policy. Planny, 
take my wmrd for it, is not in league with Robert, neither is Robert 
with Planny. Planny ’s bright sense of honor, for which I respect 
him heartily, impels him to seek to render full justice to the man 
whom he has defrauded. He will carry that programme through 
successfully, with us or without us, with our acquiescence or in the 
teeth of our disapprobation. Read his letter again and you will 
agree with me that his determination is unalterable. Besides, he has 
burned his bridges: he has gone out of the Canton; he has prac- 
tically ceased to be a magistrate; he has left the Court; he has abdi- 
cated his position. It would be morally impossible for him to eat 
his words, to undo his acts, to resume his place at my table, to be his 
old self again. Neither is he the man to play at mendacity. He is 
by far too magnanimous. Robert, the claimant, is a man of quite a 
different kidne}^ He is, of course, our own flesh and blood, but 
his training has been most disastrous. The fellow’s endowed by 
nature with splendid brains, and Orphrey says he’s something of a 
genius. But he’s been a public-house singer, a democratic spouter, 
and little short of a vagabond. It happens, however, that his repub- 
licanism rather dovetails with our interests the interests of Errol. 
He wants to go to America. He wants to tiansmogrify himself into 
a citizen of the Yankee Republic. Let him do so by all means, and 
jf only he will agree to break the entail he may start as a Texan 


UNDER WHICH KING? 123 

farmer, or a Chicago bacon-curer, or a Californian miner with ample 
capital. What do you think. Lady Marmyon?” 

“I’m inclined to agree with you,” she said, at once, and with 
emphasis. 

“ And you, Errol?"' 

“ 1 — I don’t know. 1 should like to find out what these two fel- 
lows have been up to. Planny dates from the Marmyon Arms; Rob- 
ert Hodge, of course, is there too. I’ll w'ager something heavy these 
men are acting in concert.’’ 

“ That may be so,’’ replied Lady Marmyon, “ and it would be 
wise policy to find out, if we can. In any case we must be op- 
portunists and move step by step.’’ 

This sapient sentiment ended the domestic palaver. Appropri- 
ately, my lady enjoyed the feminine privilege of the last w^ord. At 
luncheon, how'ever, it was resumed by Sir Robert aeliverinff himself 
of the reply he had penned to Plantagenet’s letter. It was to this 
effect : 

“ Dear Planny, — Your letter just received has affected us deeply. 
It reflects equal credit on your head and on your heart. Believe me, 
1 should have felt it to be a sacred duty to break gently to you this 
distressing intelligence, and 1 am much displeased that it should 
have been communicated to your ear by any living human being but 
myself. You, 1 perceive, have taken for granted the truth of Mis. 
Hodge’s allegations, i vvas by no means prepared to decide even 
mentally without further investigation, and had you waited to con- 
sult me before moving definitely 1 should have advised a different 
and more cautious course. As it is, you have precipitated matters, 
and 1 think on our return it wdll be advisable to take the opinion of 
the gentlemen of the long robe. And now, Planny, putting aside 
legality and the question of blood-relationship, 1 trust you will ever 
consider yourself to be, if not my sou in blood, at- all events my 
adopted son. Do me the favor of again taking up your quarters at 
the Court as one of our household, for while 1 live you shall never 
feel the want of a father. 

“ Believe me, dear Planny, 

“ Yours ever affectionately, 

“ Robert Marmyon. ’ ’ 

“Er — ah,’’ continued the baronet, all in the same breath, “the 
difficulty is the address. Suppose I put in a postcript to ask him to 
retain the name of Marmyon?’’ 

“ Come, come!” cried Errol, “ that is too much.” 

“ And the letter,” remarked her ladyship, “ strikes me as so much 
behawder. It’s all patronage, and 1 should, were 1 the man, recoil 
from it as offensive. ” 

“ Y’‘es,” retorted Sir Robert, “ but then you never entertained any 
natural affection for poor Planny!” 

At this sally both mother and son littered, while the latter mur 
mured beneath his breath, “ Natural affection for a changeling! 
AbsurdI Just like his sentimentality.” 

** What’s that you say, Errol?” 

Z, ** Ohl nothing, father. 1 don’t agree with you, that’s all.” 


124 


UlsDEJl AVHICIl KIXG? 

“ Then keep your remarks to yourself,, boy. The letter expresses 
my meaning, aud that is enough.” 

“It really doesn’t signify,” yawned my lady. “Mr. Plantage- 
net Hodge is not likely to infest Marmyon Court, thank goodness — 
there are two people to be consulted about that. And as regards the 
rest, if he doesn’t appreciate your soft sawder — well, really, it’s of 
no consequence. 

And so the letter went, and we will follow it to its destination, as 
we traced that of the man to whom it was addressed. 

Sir Roberl, with a courtesy that did him honor, ga^e Plantagenet 
this old name', and the letter with the Marmyon crest on the envel 
ope and theaddiess, “ Plantagenet Marmyon,” created a sensation in 
the bar of the public-house, where sundry natives were discussing 
their early glass about the time when people are beginning to dream 
of tea or coffee. 

It reached the young man’s hands after careful inspection by Mrs. 
Hodge and Belinda, The former being a woman m-rived at a ma- 
tronly age, and withal claiming maternal relations with him, felt 
justified in canying it up to his bedroom door. If' her son, however, 
habit caused her to regard him rather as her master, so she knocked, 
and there being a grunt between the sheets entered subserviently 
enouah. 

“ I’ve brought you a letter, my dear, from Sir Robert.” 

“ Veiy well, put it down on the table and go. And look here, 1 
object to being called ‘ my dear.’ You will consider me, if you 
please, simply as an ordinary lodger in the house.” 

A tear rose to Martha’s e 3 ''e, but in silence she turned to leave, 

“ And hie, Mrs. Hodge! can’t you get me something fit to eat for 
breakfast? No more reezy bacon, please. 1 should like a spatch- 
cocked fowl and mushroom sauce.” 

“It can’t be got, sir,” responded Martha, humbly; shivering, 
however, at the humiliation of calling her own son “ sir.” 

“ Then something else— only something fit to eat, Y’ou under- 
stand — 1 pay for what 1 have. Let me be served properly.” 

“ But,” sobbed Martha. “ 1 don’t want ’ee to pay nothing, and 
you have the best as is. To think of my boy, as I have thought ct 
and watched these years, coming home for the first time and speak- 
ing to his mother like that.” 

“ I can’t help it. Y"ou and 1, woman, are the same, j’^et different. 
My ideas are not yours, nor yours mirie. 1 shall clear out of this— 
that’s certain. The Court was a false position; this is worse than 
false — absurd. Now, go!” 

And she went, carrying a heavy heart away with her. 

Lady Marmyon had rightly divined his temper. He read Sir 
Robert’s rather humbugging epistle, and his practical comment on 
it was to order a fly to convey him to the station. He could not 
walk the mile, but for all that he resolved to bury him sell and his 
sorrow and shame in the Metropolis. There he could be a stranger. 
He had only to avoid the haunts of men— that is, of the men witli 
whom he had once associated— and he would be what he now 
craved earnestly to be, nobody— one who might be Smith, Brown, 
or Jones, a duplicate of all the Smiths, Browns, and Joneses he lo’s- 
tled in the street. 


UNDER WHICH KING? 125 

Another letter, however, had arrived at the Marmyon Aims by 
the same post, and this had quite escaped the curiosity of mother 
and daughter and the satyrs of the bar, for the simple reason that 
Robert had put it in nis pocket, having received it direct from the 
post man ’-s hands. This epistle did not betray such signs of aris- 
tocracy as a crest, neither was the envelope scenterji with Atkinson’s 
or Rimmel’s perfumes. It smelled, if of anything, rather of beer 
and tobacco. The handwriting on the enveiope was not remarkable 
for elegance, and it was blurred and blotched. Yet this ugly thing 
seemed to fascinate its recipient, for he grinned and retired to the 
recesses of the stable to digest, its contents, like a boy with a box of 
chocolates surreptitiously obtained. We will peep over his shoul- 
der. 

The letter was from our old friend, Mr. Hercules Flaymar, of the 
Central Democratic Leverage Union, and this was its purport, so far 
as we can decipher the handwriting : 

“ Dear Citizen Robert Mar.myon, — I am requested by the 
committee of the Union to express to you the satisfaction" with 
which we have read in the columns of ‘ The Social Scavenger ’ the 
full and particular account of your having put in a claim to the es- 
tates of that blood-sucking varmint Sir Robert Marmyon. We feel 
that your cause is the cause of the people. Our union is not just 
now flush of funds, owing to Jehoshaphat Smiggs, our late treas- 
urer, having absconded with the money that was credited to our ac- 
count in the bank, but 1 am desired to assure you by the committee 
that if you require funds to prosecute your claim we are ready to 
find them almost to any extent, and also to provide you in the mean- 
time with subsistence suitable to a citizen of position. We should 
not make an offer of this character if it wasn’t that we feel implicit 
confidence in your honor. We know that if you win, the popular 
cause will be benefited, and so we are prepared, as your brothers in 
labor and sympathizers in suffering, to throw in our lot with you, 
and indeed and in truth, for the sake of youi rights, to sacrifice all 
we possess, 

“We are, dear citizen, 

“ Yours fraternally. 

“ Signed for the Committee, 

“ Hercules Flaymar, 

“P.S.— It’s likely enough J may run down to-morrow morning, 
and bring with me a friend. So be in the way. 

“H. F.” 

There passed over Robert Marmyon’s face a glimrner of intense 
pride and self-satisfaction. For the first time in his life he had met 
with that most delicate form of adulation, an affectation of respect. 
True, ei^ . since the astounding news had been bruited abroad, his 
, former :^lows had tried their best to toady, but the effort was too 
glaringly transparent, and they only got snubbed for their pains. 
But to be courted and sung about by the great oiator, Hercules Flay- 
mar, the captain of a legion of working-men, was quite another 
matter. It added an inch to Robert’s stature. 

He lolled and loafM about till Plantagenet came down to break' 


126 UNDER WHICH KING? 

fast, and then strolled toward the station to meet the 10.25 from 
Blackfriars. Perhaps the Republican Chiysostom might descend 
upon peaceful Marm 3 "on by that veiy rapid and convenient train. 

His conjecture was correct. Hercules had come, and with him a 
friend. Moreovei* the said frienil was introduced as Mr. Feiretman, 
who described himselt as being the salaried solicitor of the Central 
Deinocratie Leveraee Union. 

This looked like business, but Rooert’s eyes were so blinded by 
the jauuky subservience of Mr. Hercules Flaymar, and the studied 
defererice'ot the law}^er, that he did not at all see it in that light. 
To him it represented fraternity — nothing more. 

They walked leisurely to the ^larmyon Arms. But here an awk- 
wardness occurred in limine. The only private room in the house 
was the bar-parlor, and therein sat, lazily, Plantugenet, finishing 
his breakfast in lordly style. 

Hercules gazed across the counter and recognized his man, re- 
marking to Robert, “ What! he’s on the premises, is he?” 

‘‘He’s going shortly — goinsr to town,” explained Robert, nerv- 
ously. 

“ So am 1; so’s Mr. Ferretman. But we want a quiet talk with 
you first, my bey. ^an't you turn the feller out^ What business 
has he — confound him! to block your parlor?” 

Robert flushed a little. Perhaps he thought so too. Anjdiow, he 
was put on his mettle, but hardly knew how to act. To his surprise, 
however, Hercules Flajunar whispered to the lawyer, and the law- 
yer having returned the whisper, wilhout ” with your leave ” pushed 
past Belinda— Martha Hodge was in the kitchen washing up — and 
stalked coolly in the parlor, facing Pantagenet defiantly. 

‘‘ What do j-^ou want here?” demanded the latter, imperiousl 3 ^ 

” 1 don’t want you, my man. I’m Mr. Robert Marmyon’s solici- 
tor, and I’m here on business. Now, Mi. Hodge?” 


CHAPTER XVII, 

THE FIRST DELEGATES. 

“ 1 SUPPOSE,” remarked Plantagenet, with a cool yawn, ” you 
want this room. Is that it?” ' 

” We intend to have it,” rejoined Mr. Ferretman, smiling. 

” Do 5 -^ 00 ?’ rejoined Plantagenet, who had previously macie up 
his mind to retire, though he hardly relished the lawj’er’s manner, 
but now being challenged altered his mind. “Do you? That is 
as I choose. Who’s the fellow outside there with Robert? That 
Radical Republican ruffian, 1 fanc 3 % to whom I am indebted for a 
broken arm? W'ell, in that case, no. 1 shall not submit to be 
turned out by you, whoever you arc.” 

And he took out a cigar from his case and lit it. 

” My name,” observed the lawyer, ‘‘ is Ferretman, and I’m the ' 
legal adviser of Mr. Rqbert Marmyon. Having come down from 
London with Mr. Hercules Flaymar to arrange certain matters with 
Mr. Marmyon, 1 must demand this room.” 

Plantagenet rose to his feet. 

” Well, Mr. Lawyer,” he said, ” it’s lucky tor you I’m a cripple, 


rxm-R WHICH kixct? 


±w < 


or by George you’d return to London the worse for your impu- 
dence. But it happens I’ve no desjre to thwart Robert; so if 1 go 
you will understand it’s on his account, not at your bidding.” 

” Pooh! Whal’s the odds, as long as you do go?” 

But Plafitagenet had his own ideas; so. not stopping to bandy 
words with the man, he stalked out into the bar, the yokels by force 
of habit pulling their forelocks to him, and without noticing Her- 
cules Play mar, tapped Robert on the shoulder with ” 1 want you!” 
in a tone of command. 

” 1 can’t attend to you now, sir,” replied Robert, blushing fool- 
ishly. ” I'ou see, I’m engaged with these gentlemen.” 

“ You must.” said Plantagenet, gripping his arm with his one 
available hand and whispering in his ear, “ Don’t be a fool!” 

Robert caught the hint, glanced up at the big gentleman, and 
obeyed mechanically. 

” One word only. These people have come here to set a trap for 
you. Sign nothing. Promise me.” 

‘‘ They’re men of honor,” replied Robert, half angrily, trying to 
release himself. 

‘‘ Then,” said Plantagenet, ” they will not ask for your signa- 
ture. That lawyer wants you to instruct him 1o act for you. Be 
advised. Don’t — 1 repeat in ail sincerity — don’t!” 

Robert flinched, but he responded, quietly, “ Perhaps you may 
be right; but they’re my friends, don’t jmu see?” 

“I don’t see. Anyhow, they’re the wrong sort of friends for Sir 
Robert Marmyon’s son to boast. But as regards mere friendship, 
that’s another matter, and one in which 1 don’t want to interfere. 
Good-by, Robert, we shall meet shortly, and trust to me to see you 
righted!” > 

Robert smiled, tool^ the proflered hand coldly, and walked quickly 
into the pai-lor, wliere Messrs. Piaymar and Ferretman were already 
discussing hot rum. 

He closed the door after him, and was not a little staggered when 
both men advancing: at him possessed themselves of his hands and 
simultaneously patted him vigorously on the back, with the senti- 
ment, “ Luck, long life, and glory to Sir Rolrert Marmyon, the peo- 
ple’s champion!” 

“Stow that!” he pleaded, “ I’m a Republican; X detest titles. 
They are so many dodges to impose on weak-minded idiots. You 
won’t find me playing lira fool here as a sham gentleman, with my 
father, mother, and brother ready to sink into the ground for shame 
because I’ve no manners'aud can’t twist my tongue to fit with their 
talk. Not me!” 

“ Hear him!” laughed Hercules, affectedly. 

“ Hasn’t quite yet~no, certainly, not quite!” echoed the jocose 
Ferretman, 

“ 1 mean it,” said Robert, hardl}'^ relishing their rather theatrical 
badinage. “ It’s my intention to go to America, become a natural- 
ized citizen of the "Great Republic, and settle down there with my 
girl, don’t you know, friends?” 

“What?” roared h’laymar, “and desert the people of England 
when you might help them! That ain’t like a patriot.” 

“ Or a true citizen,” protested Ferretman. 


128 Ui^DEH WHICH KlXa? 

“ It’s my will, unless I change my mind,” smiled Robert. 

‘‘My gay citizen,” laughed^Hercules. “Excuse me. You’ve 
I‘)een talking romantic rubbish. The idea of a man throwing away 
your chances. "Why,, it’s lunacy!” 

“ Preposterous!” echoed Ferretman 

“ Come now^; suppose we talk it over quietly. You’re the heir, 
and can prove it. That is so. Now, have you any idea what your 
position is worth to-day?” 

“Notl.” 

“ Tell him, Ferretman, what you think.” 

“ Well,” remarked that luminary, “ say a matter of a hundred thou- 
sand pounds. Bless you, 1 know’^ all about the property. 1 was 
articled in the ol^lce of Bugglins &Flease, of Bedford Row, Sir Rob- 
ert’s lawyers, and a downright respectable old-established firm of 
conveyancers.” 

“ Yes, yes,” interrupted Hercules Flay mar, impatiently. 

“ Well, the estate may be worth seventeen, or may be worth 
twenty-two thousand a year. Anyhow% if 3mu can prove your right 
under the entail I’ll tell you what I’ll do, my boy. I’ll give you a 
hundred thousand for your chance. So there! That’s an offer worth 
a thought, ain’t it?” 

Rooeri smiled feebly. Then he glanced at Mr. Ferretman ’s coat 
which was shabby, and at his hat wllich was worse. His boots, too, 
were not perfect, and his linen would have been none the less attract- 
ive for starch. Simple, unsophisticated soul as he was, it struck 
him that this didn’t look much like a mau worth what the stock- 
broker’s term a plum. 

“ 1 have not yet proved my case,” he replied, with dry emphasis. 

“Of course not,” coaxingly whispered Mi\ Ferretman. “JBut 
I’ll do that for you without charging you a penny, whether you win 
or lose. Provided,” he added, “ you and I understand each other. 
That’s it, ain’t it, Flaymar?” 

“ My dear friend,” here interposed the deep bass voice of the ora- 
tor, addressing itself to Robert — “ y^ou are inexperienced. You 
have no knowledge of the world. You might fall in with a set of 
harpies who’d have you— simply have you. It was to prevent that 
1 brought dowm Ferretman, Ho will advise you as a friend and as 
a citizen, not, sir, of the American Republic— oh, no; but of our 
glorious English Democracy. Ferretman, did you bring your 
checkbook?” 

“Certainly, Flaymar,” extracting that luxdry from his breast- 
pocket. 

“ 1 may tell you, Marmyon,” remarked Flaymar, “ that the com- 
mittee met on your business last night, and that I obtained their 
authorization for an immediate check to be drawn for you tor twenty 
pounds, and Mr. Ferretman will write it tor you if you will oblige 
with a pen and ink. ’ 

Robert smiled again weakly, bin there crossed his face a look of 
suspicion. Possibly he reinembered Plantagenet's kindly caution. 

‘“No, thank you,” he stammered. “ E.xcuse me, sir; I’ve not 
made up my mind yet what course to adopt, and 1 don’t want 
money. From w’hat the gentleman who’s just left says, 1. don’t ex- 


rXllER WmOH KITsTG?' 129 

pcct my rights will be denied me; indeed he’s promised to do his best 
to secure them for me.” 

“ Likely!” grunted Flaymar. 

“ 1 believe him. He is, after all, by birth one of the people. Tou 
have seen him at his worst, 1 at his best. He has his faults; they 
are- perhaps those of the class with which he has associated ratlier 
than of the man; but anyhow he’s honorable. So I’ll tell you what 
1 propose. 1 shall secure my rights— safe. Then i shall go to A.mer- 
ica and settle. When my father, Sir Robert, goes, it 1 should sur- 
vive him, 1 shall divide the estate among , the laborers who have 
worked on it all these years. Do you approve?” 

“ Hum!” dubiously. ” 1 don’t see anything in it; do you, Ferret- 
man? Rather wild.- Be'Sides, by then Heorge’s plan will have come 
into operation, and there will be no more landlords. Better make 
hay while the sun shines.” 

. ” There’s no hurry,” remarked Robert, carelessly. 

” Oh, no,” rejoiukl Flaymar, with a rather disgusted air. “ No 
hurry whatever. Only it you w’ant our committee to assist, vou 
must make up your mind We are not the style of people to shflly- 
shally.” 

“i don’t at present require any assistance from anybody,” re- 
joined Robert, deinurely. 

‘‘ Right you aie, Robert,” cried the voice of Martha Hodge. The 
good soul had been eavesdroppiug, in fact had overheard the latter 
part of the conversation. ‘‘ Right you are. Don’t you go to com- 
promise-yourself with nobody.” And she confronted these candid 
friends with arms akimbo. 

“Refilly,” laughed Hercrrles Flaymar, cynically, “you take too 
much upon yourself, good Mrs, Hodge. ’I'his gentleman is not your 
sou; no relation of yours, indeed. He can be misted, surely, to con- 
sult his own interests. ” 

“Didn’t say he couldn’t! Didn’t say nothing except to advise 
him to look afore he leairs.” 

Robert glanced at his late mother, Plantageuet had gone — the 
noise of departing wheels had advised his ear of that. Had he been 
obtruding advice upon her? It seemed as if such were the case. 

“ 1 don’t need advice,” he remarked, coldly. “ 1 am a man to go 
my own way, but not one to forget my friends, my benefactors, or 
my principles.” 

“ Of course, my boy,” interposed the judicious Ferretman. “ 1 
was talking to Flaymar as we came down in the train, and the very 
remark 1 made was, ‘ Marmyon’s independent. He’s stanch, and 
to be reckoned on. But he’s his own master.’ Didn’t 1, Flaymar?” 

“ And didn'tlteli you,” replied Hercules, contemptuously, “ that 
it didn’t signify a button to lis whether our overtures were accepted or 
rejected? Faugh! The Cential Democratic Leverage Union doesn’t 
need the help of a Marmyon or anybody else. We don’t work with 
units, be they big or small. Our unit is a million hands!” 

“ You’d better work with your own hands, and earn an honest 
living,” scornfully rejoined Martha Hodge, “instead of dodging 
about the country setting fhe people’s backs up. That’s what 1 
sa3’’s.” 

“My good soul,” ans«wered Hercules, in a jocosely patronizing 
. =5 


IJXDETi WTITCTI KTXG? 


130 

lone, “ von believe in the Bible, 1 suppose — all yon.^ood folks down 
in the country do. You nod youi assent to that. Well, what does 
your inspired Apostle sav? isn’t it something to this eft ect, ‘1 
suffer not a woman to teach.’ Hey, old lady? And what did Paul 
mean by that? Why, like a sensible man, that your sex should leave 
politics and pulpits alone. You’ve got your uses in the world— 
among others to till empty glasses.” 

Ami he pointed significantly to his own tumbler, the contents 
whereof had been emptied into his inner man. 

” For them as pays,” sniffed Mrs. Hodge, haughtily, 

” I pay,” interposed Robert, sternly. 

And, oddly enough, neither Hercules Flaymar nor Mr. Lawyer 
Ferretman entered a caveat against this arrangement; so wdtli a 
glum expression Martha signaled to Belinda, who repieaished the 
empty tumblers, and retired. 

” Won’t you drink, Citizen Marmyon?” inquired Mr. Ferretman. 

” Not in my line, thanks,” answered Robert. 

” That’s unlucky,” suggested Hercule.s, ‘‘for we were going to 
put you on our committee, and one of our rules is that all must 
drink alike— to avoid jealousy, don’t you see?” 

“ Quite so. Provided the liquor is, say, coffee.” 

‘‘ All,” lauglred Hercules, ‘‘ the citizens consider that hardly im 
spiring enough. However, we must introduce you to our colleague, 
Mike Connolly. He’ll enlijrhten him, won’t he,' Ferretman? If ever 
a man had a power of persuasion it’s Mike. By George, he carries 
conviction in his pocket with him ready for all emergencies.” 

Whereat Mr. h erretman roared, and Robert began to opine that 
the Cenk’al Democratic Leverage Union was doubtless a very useful 
and exalted association, but that the tone of its wire-pullers was, 
under a cloak of almost servile politeness, rather rowdy and dicta- 
torial. There was something in the very laughter of "this pair of 
worthies that grated on Iris eat. 

However, after a little desultory talk, and a renewal of their dis- 
interested offer of £20 down, which was even more firmly refused 
than before, Messrs. Flaymar and Ferretman, perceiving that no 
business was likely to be transacted, went back to town, their part- 
ing promise being that Mike Conolly shouTd follow them. 

Mike will make a man of you,” said Flaymar. 

‘‘ Mike will exercise his persuasive gifts to your eternal benefit,” 
laughed Ferretman. In fact to both this Irish committee-man seemed 
the most superlative of jokes. 

As soon they hacl taken their departure Robert asked Martha 
Hodge why she had intruded upon them. 

‘‘ If you* wants to know, I’ll tell ’ce,” was Martha’s reply. “ ’Twas 
all along of that son of mine as turns his back upon the woman as 
brought him into the world,” and a little, hysterical sniff accom- 
panied the protestation. “ He it were who came to me, and he says, 
says he, ‘ stop it.’ ‘ Stop what?’ says I. ‘ Stop these rogues having 
liim ’ — meaning thereby you, Robert. And so 1 done, and you 
oughter thank I.” 

There was no need. Don't imagine I’m going to be led by the 
nose. 1 was armed at every point, as you saw.” 

” Don’t be too conceited, young man. You’re one of that lot as 


U]S"DER WHICH KING? " 131 

thinks theirselves clever. So you is. But you isn't no match for 
they twov 1 looks ’em all over. 1 watches their little tricks. They 
was on to you, my bo-oy, and hain’t done with you yet. And what’s 
more, it’s less nor nothing fellows of their kidney will stick at. They 
don’t care, bless ’ee. Why should they ? .Heads 1 win, tails you lose. 
Trust a woman as hav’ Kept a public-’us for years to measure the 
length of their foot. Drop ’em, Kobert. If they sends down that 
Irishman keep out of his way. You might as well go and pal with 
one of they gray adders up in the woods as with an Irishman.” 

“I’m not afraid of any of them,” retorted Robert, proudly. 
“ Besides, why should 1 be? They are my friends, and the true 
friends of the people. 1 may be Marmyon or Hodge— it’s all one. 
I’ve thrown in my lot with the cause of those who work for their 
bread and eat what they earn, and against those who eat what others 
earn for them. Those are my principles, and funk shall not make 
me turn my coat.” 

“ Belinda,” remarked IMartha Hodge, as she watched the retreat- 
ing figure of this self-confident young miPii, “ pride will have a fall. 
You mark my words. Robert were always uppish and upstart. 
Now his head’s his lieels, and his heels his head. They’ll swindle 
him, will that lot. And what for? Because he took hufit at Master 
Errol’s speaking to his girl, though it never went beyond speech, 
and all of a sudden discovered that he was mighty ill-used. And 
here, before ever he’s got a cause of complaint, and when he ought, 
if he were sensil)le, to pay court to Sir Robert, he goes and joins a 
conspiracy. ’Tis a conspiracy, if eVer there were, one, against the 
queen and the House of Lords, and all that. As if a feller like Flay- 
mai could put down the queen! Let him try it on. He’ll find out 
his mistake it he comes to tackle the soldiers and perleece and gentle- 
men and farmers, and everybody with a decent coat on his back.^ 
It’s all nonsense, Belinda, and these chaps don’t mean it. They 
talks for money, and they schemes for money, and there ain’t no 
good in any one of ’em. 1 ’ates a cad!” 

After this outburst of loyalty and.constitutionalism, which Belin- 
da ignored as being so much superfluous steam, Mrs. Hodge regaled 
herself with a nip. Then she sat down to her needle-work to snort 
and to mutter after the manner of women with irritable brains when 
thinking aloud. 

At last she jumped up, and said to Belinda, “ I’ll mind the bar, 
girl. Just you put on your hat and run down the village to Will- 
iam’s. Tell Polly 1 wants to see her, pertikler.” 

“ 1 expects,” observed Miss Belinda^ yawning, “ as Polly’s keep- 
in’ company with Robert. They’re mostly about together, now that 
Robert’s got no work.” 

“ Do as you’re bid,” said her mother. 

That was enough for Miss Belinda, who departed, spentf a long 
half-hour gossiping, and returned with the important intelligence 
that Venus was at the wash-tub and could not complete her lava- 
torial operations until tea-time, about which hour she hoped to be 
able to w'ait upon Mrs. Hodge, if that arrangement would suit. 

Tea-time came, and with it, Polly. Robert, so she said, finding 
her engaged, not to say immersed, in soapsuds, had betaken himself 
to the Court to enjoy a chat with Hester Mazebrook, who was 


13 ^ 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


deeply interested in procuring the reversal of her sentence of dis- 
missal ; and, indeed, through Widow Gipps, had preferred an urgent 
appeal to Robert, as the coming man, to plead her cause. Her argu- 
ment had some logic in it, be it remarked, passim. She said to her- 
self, “ if they punish me for establisliing their son’s identity, they 
will have to quarrel with him. Leastways, he ought not to cast oil; 
the ladder by which he climbs to fortune.” Hence she lost no time 
in cultivating Robert, and in endeavoring to secure his champion- 
ship, a bit of diplomacy which she accentuated by means of some, 
very superb champagne and sundry toothsome edibles, which were 
so grateful to the young man’s palate as almost to reconcile him to 
the principle of aristocracy. 

Polly was looking very sweet and saucy. Robert ‘had prated 
about Texas and Manitoba, and endeavored to inflame her imagina- 
tion with dreams of the giant rivers and endless prairies of the States. 
She, however, had her own imaginations, and they were emphatic- 
ally home-made, and did not range across the Atlantic. It was good 
enough for her to be the Lady Marmyon of Marmyon Court, and by 
on means an unsatisfactory prospect to be Mrs. Robert Marmyon, 
with the reversion of ladyship. To be hen on her own dunghill was 
ambition enough for her simple, soul, and she built innumerable 
aerial tableaux? wherein she figured as the center, the supreme Lady 
Rountiful, patronizing grandly Styles, the miller; Mrs. Rodd, the- 
farmer’s wife, whose “ things ” her own hands had washed; and 
all theNoakes, Stokes, Brown, and Oones proletariate of the village. 
In fact, just no'w she was livingf moving, and breathing in dream- 
land. She had been laughing all the afternoon at the wash-tub as 
an immense joke — it seemed so utterly ridiculous for Ihe embryo 
Lady IMarmyon to be engaged in menial labor. Indeed, absence of 
mind had caused her both to scald her own fingers and to singe Mrs. 
Rodd’s frilled petticoat. But these were trifles,- and had no influ- 
ence on her spirits. Indeed, she met jMrs. Hodge quietly, grandly, 
and -condescendingly, as it nothing had happened. _ 

” Well, Missus Hodge,” drawled she, ” and how do you do?” 

“ Pretty well, Pol; and how’s yourself?” 

“Middlin’! It’s worritting of Robert to take hisself ^off to the 
Court, ain’t it? But of course he feel a interest in the Court now, 
as he’s able to consider it in a way as his own,” 

“Fiddle-sticks, gal!” cried Mrs. Hodge, to wliom grandeur was 
repulsive. “ ’1'ain’t Robert’s house yet, and maybe never will be, 
still less yours; for you ain’t got either Robert or it just yet, miss. 
But there, 1 don’t want to be disagreeable; 1 got a muffin for your 
tea. Here, my gal, stop your mouth with that,” picking the fatty 
brown thing oJtthe hob, “ and listen to a woman hold enough to be 
your mother.” 

“ Tain’t bad! 1 likes muffins when they’re well buttered. ” 

“ Yes; but that ain’t it. What 1 wants to caution jmu about is 
this. Robert’s a ass!” 

“ Missus Hodge— how dare you!” and down -u-ent the muffin, 
which one hand grasped, and the teacup in the other, with a bang, 

“ Keep your air on, young woman, please! M hat 1 says is for 
your good and his. Robert, my dear, he’ve got into the hands of a 


HINDER WHICH KING? 133 

couple ot London sharpers. You must sliop that, or, as my blessed 
name is Martha Hodge, they’ll ruin him.” 

‘‘ Oh,” remarked Polly, jauntily, ” that’s ai\, it? Well, 1 bain’t 
afeard. Robert’s ’ead is as good as’theiis. The parson, he says, as 
Robert ain’t got a equal in the county of Kent.” 

“ You’d better advise him,” observed Mrs. Hodge, dryly. 

Polly was about to reply, when to her amazement a stranger 
vaulted over the bar counter, opened the parlor door, and introduced 
himself sans ceremonie. 

‘‘ A — ah now, it’s Mrs. Hodge, sure! Didn’t me oys desave me 
when I payped through the glass door and saw jist the tip of a fay- 
male head? I’m a gintleman, Mrs. Hodge, dear, and 1 want a bid 
the very noieht that is. Ye’ll oblige a gintleman, sure? Arrah, the 
gyurl’s pretthy, bedad,” glancing at Polly, rather boldly too. 

” No nonsense,” rejoined Martha, sternly. “We don’t allow this 
sort of thing here, sir.” 

“ No offense, me dear lady, 1 beg. Promise me a shake-down, 
and bedad I’ll oidther a bottle of champagne for the binifit of all 
consarned.” 

This sounded like business. Martha’s voice altered accordingly 
from a tigerish contralto to a dove-like soprano, and she was at once 
his very humble servant. 


CHAPTER XYlll. 

THE SEEPLEMENTARY DELEGATE. 

“ Hurroo!” cried the gay gentleman with the Milesian accent. 
“ Marmyon’s a charmin’ village intoirely, and the Coort I’m tould’s 
a foine place. The air too’s lov’ly, exhil’rating, iuvig’rating, and 
the ladies is quoyte to moy taste. If now oid a woife as iiandsome 
as Widdy Hodge, whe’ew! Be jabers, will thin, I’d be as jolly as 
the fat ould praste of St. Garlath’s, sure!” 

And the man, not quite bad-looking for an Irishman, cast sheep’s- 
eyes at Mrs. Hodge, who simpered, but affected annoyance, at this 
“ deludhering ” rhetoric. 

“ There,” said she, “ I ’ates compliments.” 

“ Let me administer another whack of this divoine fluid, me dear 
lady. We’ll have to be havin’ a second bottil when this is done. 
And sure we mustn’t be oraittin’ this purty gyurl here! H’wat’s 
your name, now? Oid be bound it’s Fan, or perhaps Sue, bedad.” 
Polly laughed outright, but she relished the champagne, being in 
happy ignorance of its Saumures([ue origin, and her look was that 
of amusement, not anger. 

“ Arrah, thin, Beautee, haven’t ye a tongue?” 

*“ Her name’s Polly,” laughed Mrs. Hodge. The profit on Saumur 
being only five shillings a bottle— not bad business— made her quite 
enter into the tun. 

“ And an altogether deloightful name. Is she your dot-ther, now, 
me aear lady?” 

“ Don’t you be inquisitive,. sir.” 

“ She moight be yer dot-ther, thin saying she’s as swate as sugar- 
candy. Here dhrink about. Another bottle of the raal ould stuff, 


UKDER WHICH KING? 


134 

mother — me dear lady oi ‘hiayne. Here’s to Vaynus and all the 
goddisses!” 

“ You’re a funnyman/’ murmured the silvery voice of Polly very 
demurely; albeit the champagne had relaxed her tongue. 

“Thriie for you, miss. If it wasn’t that 1 was engaged to the 
swate Widdv Hodue at the Marmyon Arms I’d be marry in’ Polly; 
and bedad it oi was a Turruk oid marry the pair of yez and the 
gyurl in the bar too becase there's luck in odd numbers.’^ 

At this blarney M-rs. Hodge laughed hypocritically, but Polly in 
all sincerity. She really thought this Irish gentleman as good as a 
comic actor, and withal his profusion in the matter of champagne 
seemed commendable. 

“ About the bid, me dear lady. Y^ou’ll give me a bid suitable to a 
gintlemau wid a flther bid on the t’nop of it and a bowlster to 
match?” 

This was a little incomprehensible to the Kentish ear. 

“A bid!” echoed Martha. Then correcting herself, ‘‘Do you 
mean a bed? Well, as there’s a gentleman just gone out of our best 
room, 3mu can have that.” 

” A gintleir.an — ’deed, sure? And h’wat moight the gintleman’s 
name be? The Prince of Wales, now?” 

” His name,” said Martha, heaving a sigh, ” was Hodge.” 

” And a purty name, loo. Your fawther, I’ll be bound, layste- 
ways jmur late husband’s late fawther?’* 

” My son,” answered Mrs. Hodge, with dignity. 

“Oi beg pardon, me dear lady. I’d loike to make your son’s 
acquaintance. He’d be to me as me own son. And, pray, is there 
army other gintlemau stoppin’ in the hotel at the prisent?” 

‘‘ No, there ain’t,” replied Mrs. Hodge, forgetting herself. 

” Missus Hodge!” cried Polly, indignantly. 

” Right you is, my gal. Why, if 1 weren’t a forgettin’ of poor 
Robert Oh yes, he’s a gentleman — a big un too.” 

” ^even f’hoot hoigh, niaybe?” 

” No, sir — not big in that sense. A gentleman of prop — that is to 
say, of expectations and position.” 

A b’hig b’hug intoirely. AVill, it’s meself as will be proud to 
make the gintleman’s acquaintance.- And h’wat’s his name, av ye 
plase?” 

” That,” smiled Martha, ” you had better ask him yourself.” 

” Nivir. Oi couldn’t be guilty of the importinence. Come now,” 
seating himself close to Polly and looking into her eyes, “let me 
give ye another whack of this deludhering tippil, and then ye’ll tell 
me the spalpeen’s name. Arrah, be aisy. ” 

.Por Polly did not require a further dose of the seductive chemical 
compound, which already had intensified the roses iu her cheeks . 
and caused her eyes to sparkle. So she resolutely declined his offer, 
which he as resolutely insisted on pressing upon her vi et armis. It 
was in the middle of a sort of scuffle that the door opened and in 
stalked Robert, his blood rather warmer than usual, not from 
Baumur, but from the effects of a real brand. 

” Halloo, halloo!” he cried, ” what’s this? Who are you?” 

” And be this and be that, who are you, me bhoy!” springing to 
his legs and facing Robert almost menacingly. 


Uiq-DETl WHICH KING? 135 

Robert did not answer, but bis look was that of one angered be- 
yond endurance, as he stood erect, ready. 

The Irishman returned hiS stare for a minute only. Then he 
suddenly melted into a broad, heavy laugh, as he exclaimed, 

“ It’s Robert Marmyon, I’ll wh’ager me best hat!” 

** Robert,” whispered Polly, placing her hand on his shoulder, 

there’s no harm. It’s only the gentleman’s fun.” 

‘‘ And don’t look like that!” urged Martha Hodge, in a tone of 
banter, being secretly apprehensive of a collision. 

But Robert did not quite like it, nor did his face settle down till 
Polly seated him by her side, and the Irishman civilly said, ‘‘ Who- 
ever y’are, a glass of this st’huff "won’t be unaccipfible.” 

” Nothing to drink, thanks,” he replied; adding, ‘‘Yes, 1 do call 
myself Robert Marmyon. How did you guess my name?” 

” Because, bedad, oivecome here on purpose to mate Misther Rob- 
ert Marmyon. That’s whoy, sorr.” 

This last deferentially — quite. 

” Indeed,” replied Robert, “ and if 1 may ask, as you say you’ve 
come to see me, who may you be?” 

‘‘ Me name, sorr, is Mike Conolly.” 

“Oh,” cried Robert, changing color, “Mr. Mike Conolly, a 
friend of Mr. Flaymar, 1 think?” 

“ The identical same, sorr, at your service.” 

^ Good. We’ll have a quiet chat presently,” and he administered 
a meaningful look to Polly, indicating that she had better retire 
without delay. 

Polly, however, on her part was quite indisposed to retreat. The 
Irishman was eccentric and free-handed. He had administered to 
her vanity a huge dose of flattery. He had made himself immensely 
agreeable. W by should she be ordered out. of the room like a child"? 
It became, she opined, a duty to assert herself. So she remained 
rooted to her seat while Mike talked and cbafted and extracted much 
laughter out of supine Martha Hodge. 

Robert, willy nilly, had to put up with this rebelliousness on the 
part of Polly, and it certainly affec;ted the expression of his coun- 
tenance, which grew dull, saturnine, morose. In tact, the more 
jolly the Irishman was the more grim became his countenance, and 
at last, when the chaff was turned on him, he lit his pipe and strolled 
out into the stables. 

Mike, with the quick perception of his nature, realizing that the 
young man’s temper was ruffied, quickly followed him, not, how'- 
ever, before he had made Polly understand that he was her very 
ardent admirer. He found Robert in the stable-yard, alone. 

“ Warrum, sorr— at laste for the toime of year. Warrum, oi 
mane, in the parlor of the hotel, sure.” 

“T call it cold,” replied Robert. “ But it don’t matter. Cold’s 
no odds in this place. We don’t get it bad.” 

“It’s a swate spot,” remarkea Mike, “ and I congratulate you, 
me friend, on havin’ succayded to’t.” 

But I haven’t,” rejoined Robert, testily. “ That’s the nonsense 
Flaymar talked and his lawyer friend. Nothing’s proved. They 
may dispute my pretensions, and even if they are admitted I’m iin- 


136 UNDER WHICH KING? 

certain how to act. Flaymar wants me to sell my reversion and 
pocket the ready money, but—” 

“Awhish! That’s not his oidayr.at all, at all. Flaymar, don’t 
ye see, my bhoy, is all for sp’hout’n. Ho thinks he’s goin’ to con- 
vart this ould stup’d Tory count’ihree into a Republic by stump’n 
the towns and gett’n up maytins. Well, bedad, all that costs a dale 
o’ money, and betwane you and oi, sorr, Flaymar hasn’t got’t. Bo 
he says to himself, oi’ll just git this young chap to raise the dollars, 
d’ye see, and thin oi’ll be kick’n up no end of a dust. That’s Flay- 
mar’s mayn’n, sorr.” 

” 1 guessed something of the sort,” observed Robert. 

“Row, sorr, attind to me. Oi’m a laydin spirit in the Union. 
Oi’ra as good as Flaymar, and betther, d’ye see. And me pro- 
gramme’s not loike his, all blather and jabber. Me dear sorr,” lower- 
ing his voice, “ it you’ll belave an Oirish gintleman of ancesthry 
and ould blood, won ounce of dynamite’s a surer remedy for the 
wrongs ot this count’three than all the spayches in the wurruld. 
Suppose now — oi’ll jj’hut a case by way of h’wat the lawyers call a 
hypot’thesis — suppose now oi were to p’hut a few pounds of that 
materil ondther that ould divil, the baronet’s nose, and blow ’um to 
smithereens, hwoy, thin, sure the dollars would be yours to pouch 
without further bodtheration. ” 

“ Good gracious!” cried Robert, drawing back, “ you don’t mean 
that seriously, do you?” 

“ Will, be this and be that, oi’m not at all sure li’wat oi do mane. 
But h’woy not, me bhoy? Sure the ould divil’s a tyrant. Sure 
he’s a landlord. Sure he’s the sworn inimy ot the payple. And, 
be jabers, sure he stands in your loight, he does. ’Deed, sure, 
it stroikes me imagination forcibly that a pinch of dynamite’s 
the oidintical cure tor his complaint.” 

“ And for mine also as soon as 1 become a landlord.” 

“ Thrue tor you, sorr. If we was to catch you daysorting the 
sacred cause of the payple, be this and be that, we’d sarve you 
worse nor that. Me dear bhoy, there’s no backin’ out of obleega- 
tions once mcorred. Befor’ you had an oidayr of bein’ a barynet, 
or a gintleman at all, at all, for the mather of that, you joined us. 
Don’t think to turrun yer back on the Republic. Don’t think to 
alt’ther yer moind and beconvarted to Tory principles. Bedad, sorr, 
if oi was to inliirit an estate of fifty thousand a year, oi’d give it up 
at once to the cause. We’re not a-goin’ to ask you to do that. But 
we ixpect you to shell out handsome.” 

“ Or else?” asked Robert, disliking the collar. 

“ Don’t go to ask me what’s the alternative. Oi’d be sorry to see 
r? foine young felly loike you c’hut ofi, suie, in the proim- of loife 
and the mornin’ of fortune. Annyhow, the Union’s not be throi- 
hed wid, son.” 

“ Ro more am 1,” replied Robert, haughtily. “ It don’t signify 
a rush whether I’m Hodge or Marmyon. Whichever 1 am, 1 boast 
in my veins the blood of the men of Kent, and we, my good Irish 
gentleman, have never yet worn the collar. We’re an easy lot to 
lead, but hard to drive.” 

“ Mayte us fair and frindly, sorr, and there’ll be no nade of layd- 
in’ ner dthrivin’ nay ther.” 


UNDER WHICH KING? 137 

** I met Flaymar fairly and as a friend this morning. 1 told him 
that my heart remains true as steel to the cause. But 1 had to add 
this, that I intended to serve it according (o my lights, and inde- 
pendently. Certainty I’ve no notion ot injuring Sir Robert. Why 
should 1? He’s my father, and it’s not his fault that I’ve been lett 
to shift — that is due to the selfishness of that woman indoors, who 
wanted to obtain my inheritance for her son. So, I repeat, no tricks 
with Sir Robert, or I and your Union split. Then, as 1 do not dtsire 
to injure Sir Robert, so neither will I disgrace him. It I came here 
as his son he would be ashamed of me and of the girl who will be 
my wife. That won’t do for me. 1 propose to go to the States and 
settle. Should I survive Sir Robert 1 shall inherit this estate, which 
I shall then divide among the working-men, who have themselves 
and their forefathers before them labored upon it. Is that just?” 

” It’s moighlily silty, sure. Besoides, that loine of business 
would not binifit the Union, bedad — not a dime. Arrah, it’s out of 
the quistion. Can’t be allowed at all, at all.” 

” Indeed!” rejoined Robert, coolly. ” Then it’s no use discuss- 
ing it further. Besides, my pipe’s out and it’s cold. 1 shall think 
about turning in.” 

” Will, now, thin, darlint, oi’veoffinded you, audit’s mesilf nivir 
intinded nothing of the sorrut. Lay ve the business for the prisinl, 
and turn it over in yer moind at yer leisure. Maybe you’ll catch a 
glimpse of the loight and be lid to parsave the vally of a dynamite 
policy. Anj'-how, now’s not the toime for moor talk, so let’s enjoy 
a bit ol supper— a chop now, or faix a rasher?” 

” All rignt,” responded Robert. ” I’ve no doubt they’ll give you 
somethins: in the house.” 

“But, me bhoy, oi’ll be losin’ me app’tite intoirely onless you 
agray to ate as well. A chop now?” 

“ No, thank you.” 

“ But, me bhoj', a bit o’ muttin's a bit o’ muttin, siirel” 

“We don’t call it beef in my country,” rejoined Robert, with a 
cynical laugh. “ But no. I’m going to walk home with my girl.” 

“The swate crayture in the parlor now! Be this and be that, 
Misther Marmyon, it’s mesilf wishes 1 was you.” 

Robert could not help laughing at this frank avowal, and having 
nothing further to say led the way to the house. 

Polly, however, had already taken her departure — in a bit of a 
hull, so Belinda whispered. This was awkward, for Robert had 
already had enough of Mr. Mike Conolly, whom he regarded as a 
very cold-blooded villain. He therefore slipped out and followed 
Polly to her humble domicile, leaving Martha Hodge to entertain 
the “ raal ould Oirish gintleman,” wh^o proceeded to eat with the 
gusto of one who had not tasted meat for a month. 

When lie had finished he insisted on brewing a beaker ot whiskey 
punch for the landlady, who, of course, it being all in the way of 
business, did not care to decline that poison. Now whiskey punch 
leads to confidence, and that was just what IHr. Mike wanted. 

“ Bedad,” he remarked, “ that fellow Marmyon’s not the man to 
be your son, mo dear lady. Your son, now, oi’ll wager, is a loine 
sthrappin’ crayture, loike yersilf, sure!” 

Martha laughed. If he had called her an elephant or an angel, a 


138 


UNDER WHICH KINO? 


mermaid or a squaw, it would liavc been all the same in her ears— 
so long as he ordered drinks with that fascinatng recklessness of 
which he seemed to be master. 

“ My son,” she replied, “ is large— six foot odd inches, and broad 
in proportion. Compared with him, Eobert’s a chicken.” 

‘‘ And oi’ll vinture to sormise, me dear lady, that in regord of in- 
tornal disposition your son’s a dale the best of the t\\o, gin’rous, 
now, and simple-liorted?” 

‘‘ Ile’ve got a temper, he have,” remarked Martha. 

“ And the felly Marmyon — hasn’t he won too? Bedad he’s a 
’cute won, and as obst’nate as any pig.” 

” He are a bit perverse,” chimed in Martha. 

“ And who is’t now that pulls the sthrin^? That purty gyurl wid 
the oi’s and oylash’s, oi’ll be bound! It will be moi duty, ma’am, 
to-morrow, to make the acquaintance of that same purty young 
crayture. Thrust an Oirish gintleman for connoodlin’ the gyurls, 
sure! Oi’ll be ayvin wid that divil of a chap yet, me dear lady.” 

” You'd better leave Polly alone,” said Mrs. Hodge, “ Kobert’s 
that jealous — well, if it hadn’t been for his jelaousy my son ’ud be 
peaceful at the Court now, and I wish he were, 1 do.” 

And Mrs. Hodge set up just a little whimper. It might have 
been pique, it might have been the remembrance of Plantagenet's 
cool indifference, or it might have been the remembrance of Plantag- 
enet’ cool indifference, or it might have been the whiskey. Prob- 
ably the emotion was produced by an amalgamation of all three. 

*• Jilious, thin, is he? I’d have thought so now. Did’nt admoire 
moi playn' wid the gyurl. Bedad, then, oi’ll make the spalpeen of 
a Samson the tool of his Delilah, so oi will, me dear lady, befoor 
another day’s over. And now for won moor lashin’ of hwhiskey, 
and thin to the vartuous couch. Me good sowl, it’s yer own liquer, 
and ye wouldn’t go tp be ashamed ot’l?” 

The next morning Mr. Mike Conolly was not up with the lark. 
The meridian was more to his fancy, and he put in an appearance 
suggestive of headache. However, his capacity for assimilating 
food seemed unimpaired, and his spirits never flagged a second. 
Belinda was in attendance, her mother being completely hars de 
comhat, the result of superimposing Pelion in the shape of inferior 
whiskey on the top of Ossa in the shape of inferior Saumur. Poor 
woman, for once the biter was sorely bit. In her misery she lay 
groaning and bemoaning the hard fate which— save the mark— had 
attracted her to a trade wherein total abstinence is professionally 
impossible. 

” Thim eggs, me dear,” remarked Mike to Belinda, ” is the very 
issince of the fowls of the air— poorfict, intoirely. And to sind 
thim down oi’ll take a draught that would satisfoy the fishes of the 
say.” 

” What’s that?” inquired Miss Belinda, in her rustic simplicity. 

” Just a woineglassful of nate brandee, me dear.” > 

This variety of aqua totana was duly administered, and then Mr. 
Mike Conolly announced that he ” filt loil^e a hayro.” 

The feeling of heroism, too, caused him to awake suddenly to 
business, for he had not— to be candid— descended upon the peace- 
ful village of Marmyon merely to eat and drink. 


139 


UJfDER WHICH KIHG? . 

“ H’what’s become of me Lornid Marmyon?” be asked. 

“ Robert?” said Belinda. “ Oh, he's gone to the Court to talk to 
the housekeeper. She’s had a letter from my lady, and there was 
something in it about him, so she sent for him.” 

Whe— ew! Well, perhaps it moight be wuirus. And h’ where 
does the purty gyrul live— her that was here last noight?” 

” Ah! that’s tellings, sir!” 

^ ” She’s not a patch upon you, me swate craytur. Kot to be min- 
tioned in the san^e hour, sure. You’re the rose, and she, bedad, 
she’s the primrose. But for all that, oi want to spake wid W, just 
to git her to prevint Misther Marmyon from makin’ an ass of him- 
self.” 

“ Oh,’’ muttered Belinda, blushing at these pointed compliments, 
‘‘ if that's all you want, 1 don’t mind telling you. Across the green, 
turn to the left, third cottage.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE LITTLE RIFT. 

Wherever is the Irishman, Conolly?” 

” Gone back to London. Paid his score too, a matter of nigh two 
pound.” 

” Well, I’m not sorry he’s gone, Belinda.” 

” And you hadn’t need to, Robert.” 

” Heyl What d’ye mean, girl? What are you laughing at?” 

” Nun— nothing, Robert.” 

Robert, however, seemed to be rather skeptical as to the veracity 
of this reply, for he stared hard ai the rubicund Hebe, whom for so 
many years he regarded in the light of a sister, and as he turned 
away the blood roise to his temples. 

” Well,” she protested, with shy emphasis, “ you didn’t oughter 
go and be angry with me. Tain’t my fault.” 

‘‘ 1 don’t understand you.” 

“Xor you won’t. If you want to know further, Robert, you’d 
best ask Polly.” 

|l ” What!” he almost shrieked. “ The Irishman gone! Ask Polly I 
^’hatfs all this mystery? Come.” 

And with his strong fingers he gripped Miss Belinda’s arm, so 
that she winced again. 

” Blest it 1 knows,” whimpered the girl, half terrorized by his 
passionate mood. ” The gentleman had his breakfast and then he 
marched straight off to Polly, and after an hour or so he came back, 
settled his score, and walked away toward the station, and—” 

‘‘ And what?” in a voice ot thunder. 

” Polly walked toward the station with him.” 

Robert started, the color left his lips, and he pressed his hand on 
his heart. Then he turned aside, and as he did so Miss Belinda felt 
a pang of sorrow for the pain her mischievous tongue had caused. 
Well she might, for with his face to the wall, the strong young man 
quivered in every limb, and a sob burst from his breast as though 
his heart was breaking. 

‘‘There, therel” whispered Miss Belinda, coaxingly. “There’s 


140 UNBEK WHICH KING? 

no call to take on so, Robert— indeed there hain’t. Polly’s true to 
you. But that there Irish chap had a funny tongue of his own, and 
it made her laugh. That’s the whole story, I be bound. ” 

But Robert made no response. Perhaps he could not. 

“ Come, Robert, dear. You make me sorry that ever 1 spoke. 
Don’t ’ee, dear boy, don’t ’ee!” 

For Robert was rocking himself as one in pain, and as she peeped 
round at him she perceived that his complexion was almost livid, 
and that his teeth were clinched convulsively. 

They were standing in the old bar-parlor, the room so familiar to 
Robert trom his earliest childhood, and Belinda with more than 
sisterly affection was doing her best to soothe him. Her efforts were 
in vain, for Robert seemed like one in a maze, and by his gestures 
he repulsed her attentions rudely. It was the early afternoon, and 
the temple of Bacchus was deserted, its votaries being engaged in 
their daily labor, so that there was no one to witness through the 
halt-open door the mental agony of this tortured soul. 

They stood there for some ten minutes, he writhing, yet but for 
bis occasional sobs mute, she pouring into hisear words of sympathy. 
Like most animals the girl was kindly, and as soft-hearted as occa- 
sionally shrewish-tongued, but for all her entreaties and her protests 
on behalf of Polly not one syllable could she extract from his lios. 

Bhe had just resolved to try another tack, and the words, “ Well 
you are a silly, Robert, and 1 couldn’t have believed it of you,” had 
barely escaped her lips when a merry laugh sounded outside — a laugh 
familiar to both— a laugh w^hich caused Robert to pull himself to 
gether and stand erect, cold and defiant. 

“ Where’s my Robert?” 

No answer. 

” If 1 was you,” whispered Miss Belinda, ” I’d go and have it out 
with her, Robert.” 

” Is that you there, Belinda?” 

‘‘ Yes, it be, Polly.” 

“And where’s my Robert? 'Why,,sure-ly, that's him! Robert, 
what’s become of your tongue?” 

“ Speak to her,” muttered Belinda, in a low tone. ^ 

But the man addressed had evidently neitlier words at commaifjE 
nor the will to utter. With a look that Polly long remembered, he 
abruptly strode past her and out of the house, his teeth firmly set. 

“What’s up?” demanded the pretty girl, with just a little flush 
of resentment on her cheek. 

“ Why do you ask me?” rejoined Belinda, solemnly. 

“Why not, please?” 

“You’d best ask yourself,” retorted Belinda, acrimoniously. 
“ Of course Robert’s put out at your gallivanting about with that 
there Irish- chap.” 

“Then,” responded Miss Polly, archly, “he must put himself 
right again. 1 wouldn’t have spoke to the Irisher but on account of 
him.” 

“ Oh— ah— yes! But j^ou didn’t refuse the Irisher’s champagne, 
did you? And 1 can’t see as there were any call for you to walk 
along with the feller to the station. Why, you might have been 
keepin’ company with him, to act in that fashion.” 


141 


t’XDER WHICH KIXG? 

‘'Ob,’’ sneered Polly, “ that’s your opinion, is it, miss? Then 
keep it to yourself, miss, It Robert’s jealous let him be so. ’Twill 
do him good and ’twon’t hurt me. I’m not likely to be hard up for 
a lover.” 

“ Blackberries,” remarked Belinda, sententiously, ” is plentifuller 
nor baronets.” 

” Bother baronets!” replied pretty Miss Polly. “ And bother you 
as well! Robert’s all right. Ko fear;” with which reassuring 
statement Polly departed homeward. There were arrears ot wash- 
ing to be cleared ofl, and she had already wasted a great portion of 
the morning, so she returned to her soapsuds to laugh, as at a great 
joke, at her Robert’s jealousy, never doubting but that after the 
storm would come a delicious calm, singing to herself the while the 
refrain of Edwarde’s Elizabethan madrigal: 

“ The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love.” 

Nevertheless the evening came, and with twilight and darkness no 
Robert; and the morning dawned, and again there was no Robert. 
Next, Mrs. Gipps dropped in to upbraid her for having driven her 
boy, as the old soul persisted in dubbing him, far afield; and she 
learned that Robert had gone, no pne knew whither. The news 
gave her rather a start, but she summoned up all her sang froul, 
smiled sw'eetly, and to the objurgations of Widow Gipps com- 
placently vouchsafed the rejoinder, ” No fear; he’ll be back again 
soon. It’s his tempers. That’s all.” 

With the advent ot Sunday, however, the day especially dedicated 
by the village to the service of the goddess ot gossip, whoever in all 
Olympus she may be, tfie disappearance of Robert became so much 
of a sensation as to cause 31iss Polly both inconvenience and pain. 
Girls passed old shepherd William’s cottage and paused to stare at 
Polly. Yokels whom she had snubbed for Robert’s sake, grinned 
sarcastically from ear to ear. Even her father, usually inciined to 
pet and make a fuss with her, turned rusty, and hazarded a cutting 
comment that she was an ass for her pains. In short, she was the 
talk ot the village, and that lovely vision of being ” My Lady,” and 
patronizing all these humble but unsympathetic folk, vanished into 
thin air. For the first time in her life Polly felt that she hated her 
fellow-creatures, and that they were unworthy of a moment’s con- 
sideration. Disappointment tones down to a dull gray even the 
bright sunshine of youth and beauty. 

It was witli the design of escaping impertinent curiosity that Polly, 
ere 5 ''et the village had supplemented the Sunday morning service by 
the regulation Sabbath gorge, slipped on her hat and tripped away 
unobserved to Flesset Wood. The ground w^as hard and crisp, for 
there hud been a white frost, and thespray of the beeches was thickly 
coated with rime. A few struggling rays of orange sunshine check- 
ered the huge, solemn wood, but nature was silent, and there seemed 
something shroud- like in the lifelessness and gloom of the day. She 
was alone now, and there were no wash-tub, no chatter, no voices of 
little brothers and sisters, na peevish plaint of mother, no gruff 
bassoon of father’s greeting, and beyond all the music of Robert’s 
whisper and the glamour of Robert’s eyes were gone. She had borne 
up till now, Flesset Wood, however, made her cry. It was all that 


142 


UKBER IVTIICH 

melancholy wood, she told herselt, and nothing to do with Robert 
or any other mundane consideration, merely the gemm loci, the sad- 
dening spell of silence tliat forced her tears to fall in showers. 

Presently a little bird dropped from a branch at her feet, as she 
slowly moved up the pathway. The thud of its fall startled her, 
and she paused involuntarily to see it give three convulsive struggles 
and then die. It was only frozen and starved, poor thing; and, after 
all, but a bird, and what is a bird more or less? Keverlheless, tlie 
small thing’s fate brought fresh tears to her eyes. Kow, however, 
she was able to -assure herself that these tears, these idle tears, were 
all for the feathered songster, and not for Robert— most certainly 
not for Robert— he never entered her head till long after she began 
to cry, and the thought of him caused her to try and dry her tears, 
not very successfully, perhaps. Soon she got tired of strolling up 
this steep ascent, and the village below in the mid-distance seemed 
more cheery and cozy than this lonely eerie scene into which she had 
strayed. She had quite half a mind to turn back, but the thought of 
those peering, inquisitive eyes, and those sarcastic, cruel smiles cle- 
tei-rcd her. Coldness, solitude, and even tears were preferable to 
ridicule at this crisis in her young life, so she resolved to await the 
.jangle of the bells which would s'ummon the parish to Vespers. 

When once these good, kind, amiable neighbors, friends and well- 
wishers were ensconced in their several pews she knew that she conld 
steal home unobserved. After church it would be dark. They 
would close the shutters against rude starers, and there would be 
nobody to laugh at her soul’s bitterness. 

Listening for the bells— it was, though she knew it not, being un- 
endowed with that necessaiy luxury, a watch, a good half hour be- 
fore they were due — she fell into a brown-study. The center-point 
of that reverie was— need it be said?— one Mr. Robert erst Hodg(\ 
now Marmyon, and she was pondering whether it would not be the 
truest wisdom to patch up her tiff with Belinda and enlist that youn<»- 
person’s services to discover the whereabouts of the truant, when 
her nose smelled something odd— very. What could it be? Tobacco 
Very fragrant indeed was that odor, whereas, the stuff her father 
smoked nightly seemed to the feminine nostril only just prefeiable 
to manure. No. it could not be tobacco. It must be a cigar. A 
cigar it was, and the man who smoked it was in her wake, followiim 
her steps lightly. Could it be Robert? She had half a mind not tS 
turn her head. Curiosity, however, is more potential in the female 
breast than any number of half minds, so she turned right about— 
to face Errol Marmyon. 

“ Ha! ha! Miss Polly, so at last I have caught you. 1 went down 
to your cottage, and they did pot know what had become of you. 
Then 1 tried the Marmyon Arms, but you were not to be drawn 
there At last 1 met a child, and, as luck would have it, inquired of 
her if she happened to have a notion of your whereabouts, and was 
told tliat you had been observed walking in the direction of Flesset 
Wood. So here 1 am, and— why, what’s the matter? Vou’ve been 
crying, Polly.” 

” 1 — 1 don’t know, sir.” 

‘‘lou don’t know! Well, that, I believe, is a very ladylise 


UNDKll WHICH Kma? ' 143 

symptom. However, what I’ve run you to earth for is this~I want 
you to tell me where Robert is.” 

“ I — 1 don’t know, Mr. Errol.” 

‘‘Don’t know, again ! Why, what?— 1 don’t understand. Look here, 
my dear girl, you and 1 are to be brother and sister— sister-in-law, 
that is to say — so there need be no mystery between us. Sir Robert 
and my mother are coming here to-morrow, and they wish very 
particularly to see Robert- -in fact, 1 came on in advance to arrang'e 
matters. And lo ! behold my gay bird has flown; you must be in 
his secrets. Tell me all about it.” 

And he seized her hands, simply to arouse her attention. 

” 1 don’t know.” 

That was all. Her eyes were downcast, and a tear fell on the rimy 
pathway at his feet. She stood indeed almost like one dazed, cer- 
tainly as one who has no words at command, and no mmd to utter 
a syllable. 

He dropped her hand suddenly, as a thought flashed across his 
quick, incisive brain. 

” 'iou two have split,” he said, with curt emphasis. 

Then shedooked him straight in the eyes. 

” Who told you that tale, Mr. Errol?” 

“ Nobody. But it .you have not split, what is the meaning of your 
silence? You don’t know anything, and pardon me, Polly, but you 
seem the picture of misery.” 

Again she looked him m the eyes — this time, however, by a su- 
preme eftort, for he had defined only too exactly her mental condi- 
tion. She could not answer. 

” !fou don’t mean to tell me,” whispered Errol, ” that the fel- 
low’s sudden change of fortune has turned his head? You don’t, 
surely, wish me to think that a man who boasts himself ray brolner 
can be base enough to throw over the girl he told us he adored?” 

Polly hesitated. Then she fell back upon the previous meaning- 
less formula, ” 1 don’t know.” 

” It is so,” cried Errol, ‘‘ and the man is a scoundrel! 1 suppose 
he fancies, now that he has a chance of being a gentleman, that he 
ought to marry a lady. As if any lady in the land w^ould marry 

Contrary quite to Errol’s expectations, this speech of his broke the 
ice. With angry eyes Polly rejoined, 

” f^he might do worse, whoever she was. Robert may not be a 
gentleman, but there’s not his equal to be found in all the courts and 
palaces of England!” 

” Bravo! bravisslmo,” laughed Errol. ” Why, Miss Polly, you've 
loosened your tongue. So Robert’s all that, is lie? Well, i suppose 
it’s nothing more'between you than a lovers’ quarrel, and the bad 
halfpenny will turn up aaain. But 1 wish to goodness you could 
give me a hint when that event is likely to happen. You may not be 
over-anxious to see Mr. Robert— hem 1 Marmyon. I am. ” 

Polly bit her lip at this sneer. But she was now completely shaken 
out of her condition of trance, and it occurred to her that the inter- 
view Sir Robert desired might really be ot importance lo her swain. 
So she replied, briefly, that Robert bad lelt the village suddenly, 
adding that it w^as her own impression that he had gone to London. 


144 WHICH KIHG? 

Errol inquired what might have induced her to form that im- 
pression. 

“ It’s only a guess,” said Polly. ” He may have gone anywhere, 
but London’s the most likely, because—” 

And she paused, feeling that she might say too much. 

“Because?” echoed Errol, inquiringly. 

“ Well, because there have been some gentlemen down here to see 
him, and they’ve offered him money.” 

“ Oh, hoi That’s it. And the name of these gentlemen?” 

Polly hesitated, “lam not sure whether I ought to say,” she 
answered. “ llobeit’s oftended with me, and that’s the truth, Mr. 
Errol, but his offense won’t last. I’ll be bound it won’t. Only- 
only, 1 shouldn’t like to go and do or say anything as would make 
things worse between us.” 

“Ob course you would not. 1 understand the situation com- 
pletely. But you may trust me thoroughly. 1 would not injure 
you, and though you mayn’t believe me, Polly, 1 w^ouldn’t injure 
Bobert.” 

She looked at him dubiously, and reflected that he was capable of 
worse baseness than that of which he had accuserl Robert. The 
thought redoubled her caution^ and caused her to falter, rather awk- 
wardly, 

“ It 3 ’-ou’ll excuse me, sir, I’d rather not. I’ve let the oat out of 
the bag already too much. But it you wants to know all about 
Robert you’ve only got to ask Belinda Hodee. She knows more 
than 1 do. She was the last to see him before he left the village.” 

Errol smiled sardonically. She had given him information enough 
for his purpose, and therefore, with a bright smile and a gentle 
pressure of the girl’s gloved hand, he turned on his heel and souaht, 
as quickly as his legs ^vould carry him, the society of Miss Belinda 
Hodge, a young person not much given to reticence, being in effect 
as incapable of'retaining a secret as a sieve is water. 

That evening Mr. Errol Marmyon might have been observed in a 
first-class carriage of the L. C. & D. R. en roxite for the metropolis, 
and later still in a hansom cab, to the driver whereof he issued a 
mandate to find out the head-quarters of the Central Democratic 
Leverage Union in Whitechapel. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE TARSONSTOWN PFTHOGUE. 

“ Oi repate h’what 1 said befoor, me dear lady, that Marmyon’s a 
foine place, intoirely.” 

Mrs. Hodge smirked. “ It’s quiet,” she observed, drydy. “ Not 
much business doing in our line except when gents happens to come 
down here for the ’untin’, or the butterfly catchin’ in the summer 
months, or a bean-feastin’. A. good bean-feast does most for us, 
sir. ’Tain’t only the wittles, it’s the stablin’ of the ’osses, and the 
liquors and tobaccos. 1 likes a bean-feast.” 

“InOireland, now,” rejoined Mr. Mike Conolly, “ banes is not 
considthered a sufficient inducement to git pleasant upon. We’d 


UNDER WHICH KrNG? ‘ 145 

nivir foight over banes, ma’am. Praties, now; wid a soigbt of pot- 
Iheen, moight end in a swate shindy. Spaking of that same, me 
dear Mrs. Hodge, oid loike to be seein' you taste jist a dhrop of yer 
own delictable liwhiskey.” 

Martha would have blu(iked, if the color oa her cheek had per- 
mitted any further shading. As it was she produced the poison so 
dear to Milesians, and they' fell to talking. 

Mr. Michael Conolly she soon perceived was a gentleman of an 
inquisitive turn of mind. lie questioned and Cross-questioned her, 
always, however, interspersing his catechism with chaff and compli- 
ments, whereof he appeared to possess an interminable store. From 
her he learned the whole history of the Marmyon family for the past 
half-centuryq and as much as Madame Boniface chose to tell about 
Robert — the one topic on which she was least disposed to wax con- 
fidential. 

“ ’Deed, sure, thin,” ejaculated the Irishman, with easily affected 
insouciance. “ SolMisther Robert Marmyon’s engaged tobemarr’ed 
to that lov’ly gyurl wid the oies loike the b’heautiful Mrs. Langihry! 
The baste! H’whoy, oid marry the cyurl mesilt for two twos.” 

” If she’d have you,” laughed Martha Hodge. 

” Have me, d’ye say? Bedad, oid loike to set oies upon the fay- 
male woman that ’ud not have me! Whew! It’s mesilt ondther- 
stands the art of conhwhounding them sillee animals, sure?” 

“ Well,’' remarked Martha Hodge, ‘‘ there’s nothing to stop you 
that 1 knows on. Robert he’ve gone and given her the go-by, so 
my gal tells me.” 

Mike Conolly looked odd, smiled meaningfully, and then rejoined, 
*‘ Thrue for you, ould woman.” 

” What!” exclaimed Martha, indignantly. 

” Swate crayture 1 mane,” protested Mike; ‘‘sure, when 1 calls 
a young thing loike you, that moight be just turruned thirty sure, 
ould woman, it’s a terrum of endearment, just as oi moight say to 
that spalpeen in the bar ‘ ould bhoy,’ though, bedad, the felly’s not 
out of his tanes,” - 

But Mrs. Hodge was not quite inclined to be mollified by this ex- 
planation. It hardly dove-tailed with the pretty speeches Mr. Mike 
had evolved with such celerity as simply astonished her. 

‘‘ What brings you down here again?'’ she inquired, in a sort of 
tone which seemed to suggest that his visits were not benevolent in 
their intention. 

‘‘ Two sorrcumstances, me dear lady. Firrust and foremost, to 
see won Mrs. Martha Hodge.” 

‘‘ Oh, ah!” snapped Martha, ‘‘ The old woman, eh?” 

” The divoine imanation of Yanus, me dear.” 

‘‘ And the other reason, sir.” 

‘‘ That's tollin’. Maybe for raisons of importance oi’m anxious 
to renew me acquaintance wid that purty gyurl wid the' oies, Polly 
— h’wat ye’d call her? The won that Marmyon’s phitched over- 
board.” 

Mrs. Hodge opened her eyes very wide indeed. 

‘‘That’s it, is it?” she remarked. ‘‘Then my compliments to 
that there gal, and you may tell her from me that 1 says, sa3's 1, ’tis 
best to be off with the old love afore you’re on with the new!” 


146 WHICH JvIJSG? 

Bedad, and a very piirty sintiinint, too; and sorra a bit o’ dii$er- 
ence it makes so long as she’s on wid the new won, and that same 
new won’s. mesilf.” 

With which bit of Irish morality Mr. Conolly stuck his hat on 
the back ot his head, his hand in his tWusers’ pocket, and, taking 
out his watch, muttered as to himself, “ Train’s in by now. Oi’ve 
not a moment to spare.” Then he strolled off rather quickly in the 
direction of Shepherd Williams’s cotta,i»e. 

As he crossed the green, the carriage from tlie Court drove rapidly 
past, and he was able to make out the faces of Sir Robert and Lady 
Marmyon. A minute later, and he was standing outside the porch- 
way ot Williams’s humble abode, thumping the door energetically 
to attract attention. ' 

‘‘ Don’t want any, thank’ee all the same,” shouted a female voice 
from within. 

“ Arrah thin, it’s not the peddler, sure it’s me!” bellowed Mike, 
impatiently. 

” And who be you?” demanded Mrs. Williams, holding the door 
ajar, and blinking in his face. 

“ A-whist, dear! ’Tis spache with yer dot-ther I’m askin’ for a 
little minute. Beaisynow.” 

” My daughter, man? What do you want with her?” 

” I’m commishuned to daliver a message to Miss Polly in porrson, 
ma’am, ave ye plaze.” 

The dignity ot this utterance'almost exceeding its impudence, com- 
manded Mrs. Williams’s attention. In a trice she fetched Polly from 
the back piemises, and at a glance Mike perceived the change a 
week had wrought in her face. There were dark rings round those 
lustrous eyes, and the coral had fled from her lips. She met him, 
too. not only without one ray ot sunshine, but in the most icy 
fashion. 

“Yes, sir?” 

Nothing could be colder than this, and, in truth, it all but stag- 
gered even Irish assurance. Quickly, however, recovering himself, 
Mike put on his most jaunty manner, as he whispered, “ Oi’ve 
agrayable news for you, miss; leastways, 1 think so.” 

Curiosity is always a potent factor in matters feminine, yet even 
curiosity hardly attracted Polly, who raised her eyelashes languidly, 
as though no conceivable news could be to her agreeable in her 
present miserable frame of mind. 

” Oi’ve come, sure,” he whispered, for Mrs. Williams was in the 
background, all attention, “ with a message from Mister Robert 
Marmyon.” 

Polly started, the color mantled her cheek, and her eye once more 
flashed its former fire. 

” And what does Robert say?” 

“ H’wat do ye suppose, me dear child, except that he’s sorry, he 
is, to have behaved himself loike a baste, and that he’s on the road 
now from Loudon to ax his swateheart’s pardon.” 

Polly clapped her hands, and a ringing peal ot merriment spoke 
of the sudden revulsion of feeling, which indeed was at once ap- 
parent in her every gesture. 

‘ • Coming back, is he?” she laughed, almost hysterically. ” I’ll 


UKr>ER WHICH KIHG? 147 

give it my master for treating me so! You’ll see liow I’ll serve him 
out! Temper, indeed; to think of his showing oft his temper to 
me! Thank you, Mr. Conolly, and you may tell him so when you 
see him.” 

‘‘.Hush, hush. Poll,” murmured her mother. 

‘‘ You’ll set oies on ’um as soon as me,” replied Mike. ” Don’t 
1 tell ye he’s on the road. Bedad, he’ll be here afore ye can sa}- 
Jack Robinson.” And ho looked almost anxiously toward the road 
leading from the station. 

“La, la, la, la!” chirruped Miss Polly. ‘‘ AVhat a joke, to be 
sure. 1 shall meet him !fs glum as — as a haystack, unless he should 
be very humble indeed. Naughty thing!” 

She Avas smiling and talking to herself rather than to Mike, who 
was eying her with a smile of intense amusement, while her mother 
stood by with an air of total puzzlement, quite unable, not being 
naturally quick-witted, to make it all out. 

‘‘ A-whist!” suddenly muttered Mike, between his teeth. “ The - 
felly’s cornin’. That’s his forrm and figure down the road, sure, or 
me oies desave me iutoirely,” 

‘‘ Yes,” gasped Polly, the color coming and going in her cheeks, 
and her bosom heaving strangely. 

” Bedad, thin,” cried Mike, hurriedly, ‘‘ we’ll be havin’ a bit of 
fun, and make the felly jealous. Did y’ ever hear, now, of the 
Parsonstown pfthogue?” 

‘‘ The what?” asked Polly. 

‘‘ Bedad, of coorse ye didn’t. It’s jist this, me dear. Ye see this 
goolden sovereign?” 

‘‘ Is it a real one?” demanded Mrs. Williams, who keenly appre- 
ciated coin of the realm. 

” Rale, did you say, mum? Take ut, mum. Ring ut, mum. 
Boite ut, mum. If it’s not rale, moy name’s not Mike Conolly. 

But to procade. Oi put the goolden sovereign betw’een my lips, 
that away, d’ye see? Thin, Miss Polly there, she puts her lips to 
moine, and if she can take ’t away bedad the sovereign’s hers. 
That’s'the Parsonstown pfthogue. Now will ye thry„ miss? Bure 
you’ll land yer money, and make .Robert that jealous, bedad, he 
won’t be able to abear^iiimself!” 

Polly gave a little shriek, came forward, then drew back, and 
4^1anced round. Robert was approaching rapidly— almost within ear- 
shot. 

‘‘ Onqe, twice, thrice. It’s now or nivir!” urged Mike. ‘‘ Be- 
foor the young man comes, or not at all, and ye lose yer sovereign. ” 

‘‘Don’t be silly, gal,” cried Mrs. Williams. ‘‘A sovereign’s a 
sovereign, and worth havin’.” 

Poll}' tittered convulsively, again gave a side-glance at Robert, 
and rushing up to Mike, put her hands upon his shoulders and her J 
lips close to his. In a trice the sovereign was hers, not, however, 
before the Irishman had encircled her waist and kissed her in good 
hard earnest. 

The emjre performance did not take half a minute, and it was, of . . 
course, on her part sheer play, a girlish freak, but it had just the 
very eftect Mike intended. In his own imagination he had prear- 
ranged this scene, and it succeeded beyond his expectations. 


148 UNDER WHICH KING? 

Robert, in fact, after a week of London and the society of Mr, 
FJaymar, lor whom he soon becan to acquire a positive aversiou, 
had already more than half repented of his behavior to Polly, lie 
had tlierefore come down to invite an explanation from her, and, in 
plain English, to make it up. It happened, however, that he had, 
with his customary frankness, confided this intention of his to Flay- 
mar, who passed the intelligence on to Oonolly. The Irishman, no less 
than the men with whom he was associated, perceived that the next 
move would be the emigration of Robert with his wife in 'posse to 
the United States, and this didn’t at all suit their book. They re- 
garded the heir of Marmyon as a pigeon to be plucked, as an endless 
mine of wealth, as the backbone of their organization, and they 
were not, therefore, prepared without a struggle to let so valuable a 
prize slip through their fingers. Accordingly Mike, as the man of 
infinite resource, was dispatched to Marmyon in advance of Robert 
to create by hook or by crook a breach between the lovers. 

Robert Marmyon, although by origin of the inoperative class, had 
been trained as one of the people. By the side of a navvy lie was a 
weakling, but his muscles were fairly developed, lie was only of 
medium height, yet he possessed certain advantages, among them 
being a quick eye, a lissome figure, and a tough cuticle. Moreover, 
when his blood was roused he could be perfectly indifferent to pain, 
and though by no means powerful, was a fair light-weight boxer. 

To his vision it seemed as though Polly had deliberately ap- 
proached Mike, put her hands round his neck, and kissed him, the 
Irishman duly returning the compliment. Any other eye-witness of 
the scene would have formed the same conclusion. No marvel, 
therefore, that in an instant his anger and jealousy revived in the 
intensest form. He did not pause to inquire; he concluded at once 
that he was deceived. 

In fact, scarcely had Mike released Polly, flushing with shame, 
from his grip, the miserable sovereign which had been the bait lying 
on the ground, than Mike received a startling blow which drew his 
blood, 

“ Robert, dear Robert!” shrieked Polly, e.ssaying to throw herself 
between them, and in her frenzy of tear at the consequences which 
seemed likely to ensue from her silliness, clutching the arm of Mike 
with hysterical ,energy, 

A blow, however, is enough to cause an Irishman to thirst for 
vengeance then and there. In an instant this ruffian, who had been 
all laughter and tun, threw oft the mask, and to release himself 
from Polly, flung the poor girl with such force against the door-post 
that she reeled and fell in her mother’s arms. Then he turned upon 
his antagonist with all the ferocity of a wild beast. It was an un- 
equal contest. For all his blind rage and all his agility, Robert 
was no match for this Hibernian bravo, who was, moreover, a prac- 
ticed boxer, and added to superior force a certain scientific knowd- 
edge of the mysteries of countering and feinting, whereof Robert 
was ignorant. 

Thud— thud— fall. Thud, thud, thud, and Robert was down 
again. From the Marmyon Arms and the adjoining cottages and 
fields a dozen men began quickly to -collect, a fight being the only 
bit of dramatic action ever witnessed by these simple yokels. 


UKDER WHICH KING? 


149 


** Bravo, our Robert! Stand up to the fellew. Ha! now you’ve 
got it, my bo-oy, on llie nob! Hit ’un straight, Robert. Darn niy 
old parish, it he haiu’t one too much for ’ee." 

This last bit ol criticism as Robert went to grass tor the tenth 
time, as though pole-axed, by a direct blow Irom'Mike’s left. 

“Halloo! what’s this?” interposed, suddenly, the calm voice of 
a gentleman — a voice familiar to all. 


Dead silence. 

“ What, 1 repeat, is the meaning of this disgraceful scene? Of 
this gross breach of the peace?” 

“ it wasn’t Robert’s fault!” shrieked Mrs. Williams, coming for- 
ward and placing herself between Mike, who stood flushed with vic- 
tory and grinning defiance, and Robert, who lay half stupefied on 
the roadway. “ That there Irishman conies and kissed my Polly, as 
is the pore young chap’s sweetheart. Sir Robert, and you can’t biame 
him for interferin’.” 

“ Bedad thin!” shouted Mike, defiantly. “ Who’s this felly? 
And what roight has he betwane us? Git up, you spalpeen,” ad- 
dressing Robert, who was slowly raising himself from the ground, 
“ or it’s mesilt will come and kick ye. Come on, ye young black- 
gard, till 1 mush you to a jelly!” 

“ Send for the constable,” commanded Sir Robert, paling at this 
open defiance of his authority, “and let this man be removed. 
Now, some of you look alive! Here, Giles, Berry, Bowyer, do you 
hear me?” 

But ere the words were out of his mouth, Mike, with a muttered 
Irisli curse between his lips, went straight for him; and had not the 
baronet quickly stepped aside he would have measured his length 
on the road. 

This was just too much tor the Kentish men. They had not in- 
terfered to prevent what they regarded as a fair fight, albeit the 
stranger was in the wrong; but when they saw that Mike meant 
mischief to their squire, little as they loved him, they collared the 
fellow with fine promptitude. 

“ Lave alone, b’hoys! Sure the blackgard’s only an ould divil of 
a landlord! Lave alone, 1 say, and it’s mesilf will knock him to 
smithereens.” 

But Messrs. Giles, Berry, Bowyer, and the rest were collectively 
too many for Mr. Mike Conolly. They, honest fellows, were not 
the men to stand by calmly and witness the spectacle of a gentle- 
men of Sir Robert’s years and physical feebleness being poumied to 
death by a powerful savage, and 'they simply dragged the man off, 
yelling, cursing, and struggling. Sir Robert calling after them, 
“ Lock him up, and send for the police.” 

Then the baronet turned, halt in anger, half in pity, to the man 
who was in truth his own son, to find that Mrs. Williams had already 
commenced tbe unpleasant task of washing his bruised and blood- 
bedraggled face. In a few minutes he had, indeed, received a 
frightful punishment, while his antagonist was hardly damaged at 
all— the general result of the duello, whether with fists or swords, 
being that the-jnjured man suffers, the villain escapes. 

“ Disgusting,” murmured Sir Robert, who was fairly nauseated 
by the scene and its phenomena. 


150 UK-DER WHICH KIKG? 

“There!” vrlitspered Mrs. Williams, compassionately, as she 
oflered the wounded man a basin and a towel. “Ihere, llobert, 
wash your hands and the side of your head. My! what a nasty cut 
you have ffot over your right ear. ’Tis a mercy the man hadn t 
killed you. And Polly, too— poor thing, she be quite stunned. 

All this while Sir llobert stood silent, with his teeth firmly set, 
cazinff with painlul interest on his namesake, who made no refer- 
ence to Mrs. ‘Williams’s kindly chatter. At last, hovrever, the 
youna man was purified from the befoulment of blood, and the good 
soito wee proposed that he should come in -doors and rest 
while she tended to Polly. Then the cause of the baronet s mental 
abstraction became appiirent. He had been awaiting Hpbert s re- 
habilitation for a definite purpose. -r. -u , 1..1 

“ My good fellow,” he said, in his grandest tone, ere Robert could 
reply to Mrs. Williams’s friendly overtures, “ allow me to say this. 
You and 1 came down from towm accidentally by the sam.e tram, 
bill I was not aware of the circumstance until, on instituting inquir- 
ies at the Court as to whether you weie still resident in the village, 
I learned that we had been co-travelers. 1, therefore, lost no time 
in walking down to the village to hunt you up, for— to be perfectly 
frank — one reason why we have returned from Bournemouth is to 
come to such an arrangement with you as, 1 am in hopes in '’^^y 
great hopes— may thoroughly meet your wishes. When 1 walked 
down here from the Court, 1 — a- hem — er — ah that is to say, i did 
not anticipate this kind of — er — ah — scene, and it is, .1 own, the 
sort of thing 1—er— ah— hardly appreciate; but as there seems 
to have been provocation — gross provocation on the part of 
that ruflianly person ^rho has knocked you about so— I am indis- 
posed to make any comment. However, you will oblige me by com- 
ing up to the Court at once. I have an especial reason for saving 
this, which 1 will reserve for your private ear. Will you come?” 

Robert, as he faced his sire rather sheepishly, was still bleeding a 
little, and in acute pain both of mind and' body. The tone of the 
baronet’s utterance, however, seemed to appeal to his ear. There 
was something fatherlv and condescending rather than patronizing 
in it and when Sir Robert took his arm almost affectionately, and 
in view of the whole village, the young fellow w^as well-nigh affect- 
ed to tears. He see.med to find here, at the critical moment of his 
life, balm for his troubled soul— sympathy w’hen most he wanted it. 
“ Thank you, Sir Robert,” he replied, quietly, “ I will obey your 

wishes.” , . , , . 

As they moved away, Mrs. Williams ran after him and whispered 
in his ear, “ You’ll come see Poll, won’t you, Robert?” 

But Robert looked her straight in the eyes and vouchsafed no re- 
ply whatsoever. 


“Mother,” said Polly, that same evening, “ 1 feel sick and 
shaken. Besides, something’s wrong— something’s gone very wrong. 
Of that I have a distinct presentiment.” 

“ There, there, gal,” answered good Mrs. illiams. ** ’Tain’t no 
use wmrritting. You’re a bit upset, and nat’ral enough too, consid- 
ering all things, but you take 3 "our mother’s word for it,ythe best as 


151 


TODER WHICH HIJS'G? 

is in this world is patience. When 1 gets the rheiimaticks what does 
1 say to myselt? 1 says, says 1, Sal Williams, there’s a beginning 
to this yere pain, and there 11 be a h’end on't. Things allers’rights 
theirselves it you leave it to time.” 

“Yes,” remarked Polly, drearily, “but love’s not the same as 
rheumaticks, mother.’' 

“No more 1 didn’t go to say as it were,” retorted her mother, 
lottily. “ Rheumaticks is misery. Love is — ” 

“ Agony,” cried Polly, bursting into a torrent ot tears. “Oh, 
mother, mother, how 1 wish all this business about the baronetcy 
and the estate had never come to spoil my poor life. It’s unsettled 
Robert, and that’s the truth. It’s turned him against me. It’s cast 
a shadow between us. And what does the squire and my lady want 
with him so very bad up at the Court, except ’tis to tell him that he 
must cast in his lot with them and marry one ot their sort, or else 
they’ll throw him overboard. I see it all; and to think that at this 
moment Robert should have an excuse lor giving me up! Not that 
he wants to — 1 know better than that. He loves me as true as 1 love 
him. But it’s all cross-purposes, that’s what it is, and I’m confident, 
there’s mischief ahead ot us both. A curse on the money, and the 
grandeur, and all ot it! What do 1 care for mone 5 % or being better 
off than my neighbors? I’d be content with bread and cheese, any- 
where — ay, even in America— along with him. They’ll stop it. 
What is my heart and my life compared with their pride? Less than 
nothing. They’d as lief 1 was under the church-yard. That they 
would,” 

“Seems tome, gal, that you’re a-talkin’ wild,” answered her 
mother, dryly. 

Polly shivered at this cold speech, and, drawing her chair in front 
ot the beechen ffre, gazed at the ruddy glare long and silently. 

Yet she could not keep what was in her heart entirely to herself, 
unsympathetic though her mother was. Anon she blurled out that 
she was only a wash-tub girl and unfit for him, anon that to take 
him from her was an inhuman act. And to add to her misery her 
head began to ache from the shock she had received, and her body to 
tremble. 

“ Goodness gracious! ’’exclaimed Mrs. Williams, rather alarmed at 
these symptoms. “ Why, what’s the matter, now? Can’t you keep 
yourself quiet? Robert may look in to-night, maybe, or at all events 
to-morrow morning. Didn’t that Irish chap say as he had come 
down in partickler to make up with you, and wasn’t it so that he 
did come?” 

“Yes,” answered Polly, solemnly, “he did come. And for 
what? To see me kissed by that scoundrel of a fellow, and to get 
his poor face cut about and his body bruised tor interfering. Will 
he love me for that, do you suppose, mother?” 

“ I told him to come and see you,” pleaded Mrs. Williams, 

“Yes!” cried she, eagerly, rising ffom her chair; “ and what did 
he say?” 

“ Well, ’’faltered her mother, rather posed by the directness of this 
query, “ he didn’t exactly say one way or t’other. Fact is, just as 1 
asked him, Sir Robert he took him by the arm and led him away. 
But he didn’t sav he wouldn’t; of that I’m certain, sure!” 




152 UNDER -WHICH KING? 

Polly sunk back in her seat, and her face paled. 

“ He will not come,” sbe gasped. “ He will never, never come. 

1 shall not see his face again.” 

” St lift and rubbish!” protested Mrs. Williams; if you goes on 
in this way 1 shall send up to the Court arid ask for him to corne. 

“ Mother, ” cried Polly, her lustrous eyes flashing, you shall not 
do that. He shall come of his own accord, or not at all. Hut he 

will not come— at least, 1 think not.” , . ^ 

And once more she wheeled round her chair to the embeis, and 
fixed her gaze upon them intently, as though she could read in them 

her destiny. , 

“ Will he, or will he not? He will; he will not; he will—he— 
Mother, what time is it, please?” n -i 

” Lawk gal,” cried Mrs. Williams, ” how you do startle a body.^ 
ihy, if you speak so loud, you’ll goto vrake the children upstairs. 

“ But tlie time-what time is it?” reiterated Polly, in an almost 

sepid^raUone.^^^^^^^ see,” answered her mother, who had taken 
down Shephered Williams’s watch from the shelf, and was holding 
it to the rushlight. “ Why, never. ’Tain’t stopped, and its a 

true watch.” ' , x v, • • 1 4 . 

“Yes,” interrupted Polly, impatiently, the watch is right 

enough. But the time, mother?” -x a ^ 

“ Well, it be twelve minutes to nine. That it be, 1 do declare, 
and your father. Poll, ought to have done his glass at the Maimyon 
Arms by this time of night. I do hope as he bain’t agoing to take 
to liquoring in his hold age. He allers were a temperate an. ^ 

“ Mother,” said Polly, turning her chair abruptly, as^though irii- 
tated bv this feeble chatter — “ mother, do you hear me? 

“ Wiiy, yes. Poll, in course 1 hears. 1 hain’t deaf yet. 

Polly paused, as though she had a lump in her throat, coughed, 
then in a strange, hissing whisper, cried, , , 

“ Mother, shall I tell you something? It Pobert comes he will be 
here bv nine; and if he does not come then, he will come never, 
and—' ’ 

“What?” 

“ 1 SIIALTx die!” , , XI 

They sat in dead silence for twelve minutes; then the village 
clock boomed the first stroke of nine, being echoed to the quarter- 
minute by the distant bell of the clock- tower at the Court. At that 
instant there "was a step, and a hand on the door-handle fumbling 
oddly and unusually. 

Both women sprung toward the door, as moved by the same impulse. 
It opened slowly, and there entered with a glassy eye Shepherd 
Williams. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

WILLING PATERNAL. LOVE. 

** Now,” said Sir Robert, with an air of relief, as he and his vul- 
garian heir passed through the lodge gates, and were fairly out of 
sight of the peering, whispering, village folk, “ do let us, my dear 
son, try and meet on the ground of common-sense. You and 1 have 


UKBER WHICH KTHG? 


153 

Diucli to settle of very grave importance to ns both, au<I if J show 
myself, as I hope will be the case, conscieutiousl}'’ solicitous lor 3’our 
welfgie, 1 have a right in return to beg that you will, so far as 3'^ou 
can, comply with m3' wishes. What 1 mean is, don’t interpose crotch- 
ets. 1 am the last man in the world, Robert, to wish to override 
honest scruples of conscience, but on the other hand 1 have no 
patience with mere figments of the brain— ideas that 1 am confi- 
dent your better judgment must cordially repudiate before you are 
many 3' ears older,” 

Robert ^pressed his hand against his head. It was paining him 
rather acutel.y. 

“ You will find me pliant enough. Sir Robert,” he replied, care- 
lessly. ” Things have altered since I last saw you, and I have un- 
dergone m3'self a singular change in the last few da3^s. Y'ou are not 
speakins: now to Robert Hodge— would to Heaven 3'ou were!— but 
to Robert Marm3'on, a different and a disappointed man.” 

Sir Robert gazed askant at the purpling features of the young fel- 
low at his side, and as he looked he fancied he detected a tear in his 
e3’^e. The words, however, told their owu tale, apart from any ex- 
ternal manifestation of emotion, and they afforded the baronet tie 
very cue he wanted. 

“ 1 see,” he said, in a tone of delicate S3'mpathy; ” you have been 
deceived where you imagined you had every ground for according 
blind confidence? Y"es. Well, remember this, ray dear boy, it is 
better to^be tricked and fooled before the wedding-ring binds you to 
your deceiver than afterward. Your honor is safe, at all events.” 

Robert made no response to this, but the words sunk into his heart. 
The3'' sounded like worldly wisdom. 

“Am 1 right?” inquired Sir Robert, who did not quite care to 
waste his sentiments on the desert air. 

‘‘1 couldn’t have believed it of Polly,” answered Robert, in re- 
sponse, perhaps, to his own thought. ‘‘ And yet there is no evidence 
like that of one’s own eyes. They, at all events, don’t humbug one.’ 

‘‘My dear fellow,” observed Sir Robert, in his most sententious 
style, ‘‘believe a man of the world when he assures 3'ou that the 
women of the lower order are— er— ah— as a rule marketable com- 
modilies. Virtue is said to be of homel3' growth, because it does not 
flourish in large cities. In my opinion," however, there can be no 
virtue apart from refinement.” 

But Robert w'as in no mood to digest paradoxical generalities. All 
he vouchsafed to respond was tliat it was a precious bad thing for 
any one to lose faith where it once had been given f reel 3'. 

They wer'e approaching the Court. Further conversation was, 
therefore, at this moment, impracticable, and Sir Robert, having a 
plan in his head, felt the necsssity of caution. He realized that the 
young man smarted under what he believed to be the falsity of his 
beautiful sweetheart, but he could not quite make out w^hether, even 
under this severe provocation, he had made up his mind to abandon 
her. He, tiiercfore, for the nonce took refuge in a dignified silence, 
and on entering the mansion led the way to the library, ordering 
wine as an emollient for the man whose spirit seemed even more 
bruised and broken than was his body. 

First, however, he took him into the billiard-room, adjoining 


154 IT^^TPEK WTTTCTT TvTXG? 

■wliicli was a lavatory, so as to give the poor fellow the benefit of a 
thorough purification. After that, and a couple of bumpers of 
JVlarinyon port, he reckoned— and rightly enough — that the elastic- 
ity of youth would reassert itself. 

“ Now, Robert,” he began, as they composed themselves vis-d-ms 
in the comfortable library arm-chairs, ” suppose we begin business. 
There’s nothing like frankness to clear the atmosphere, so 1 will 
lead off by a confession.” 

Robert smiled. He was beginning to think that this sire of his 
was by no means the brutal, selfish, superb tyrant his imagination 
had hitherto depicted him, but a benevolent gentleman, tenacious of 
his rights, yet chivalrously honorable. Most assuredly, if circum- 
stances alter cases they also vary estimates. The Melitese, for ex- 
ample, in the first instance voted a certain Paul. of Tai'sus a convict, 
and immediately afterward a god. By the same process of ratiocina- 
tion Robert the younger vaulted abruptly from a belief that Robert 
the elder was a demon to a conviction that he was an angel in the 
disguise of a baronet. A few kind words, a grace of manner, and 
an assertion of personal interest, completely obliterated all remem- 
brance of Maidstone jail and starvation wages. In fact, in his pres- 
ent frame of mind, this ex- proletarian almost contrived to arrive at 
the conclusion that the working-class gets its deserts in full from its 
kind patrons and employers. 

The benignant smile on the young man’s face encouraged the baro- 
net to proceed. 

‘‘ A confession,” he reiterated. ” It is this; When first Martha 
Hodge revealed the astounding intelligence that Plantagenet was no 
child of ours, and that you were our son. Lady Marmyon and I 
were — you’ll excuse complete candor — puzzled how to act— 1 may 
say with truth, how to feel. We had for over twenty years regarded 
one man as a child, nay, more, as the heir, and the others as a de- 
pendant. Don’t blame us if at a moment’s notice we tailed to per- 
ceive our strict duty; or at all events give us full credit for sincer- 
ity, in that we held our judgment suspended and took time for re- 
flection. The whole situation bristled with difficulties such as a 
man circumstanced as you have been all your life can hardly appre- 
ciate. .Besides which you yourself interposed at the outset a bar- 
rier to what I have since been led to consider as the right, the wise, 
and the manly course for me to pursue. You stated your wish to 
emigrate with the girl of your choice, to abandon all pretensions to 
the title and estate, and if 1 understood your meaning aright, to 
efface yourself. Am 1 interpreting your words correctly?” 

“Yes; that was my meaning.” 

‘ ‘ We might have closed with that proposition of yours. We might, 
in plam English, have shunted you.^ We did nothing of the kmd! 
Speaking on my own behalf, 1 may say that it jarred against my 
sense of rectitude to turn adrift the son of my body, my eldest son. 
Remember this, Robert, that it is no fault of mine or of your mother 
that you have been all these years supplanted by the child of that 
designing woman, Hodge. Certainly not. It is no more my fault 
than it is yours. But from the moment I became certified of the 
error that has been perpetrated, it became a duty incumbent on me 
to endeavor to rectify that error to the utmost of my ability, to take 


155 


UKDEK WHICH KIHG? 

care that one who had suitered already so much should sufier no 
more. 1 did not, 1 own, rise to that sense ot my plain duty all at 
once. There were difficulties, as 1 have said — your lack of educa- 
tion and culture, your engagement to that very pretty yet, as it 
proves, that false girl. And it happened fo? the nonce that these 
harriers obscured in my mind the true instinct of obligation. Provi- 
dentially, the chapter of accidents has been in your favor. To avoid 
the pain of having to re’^eal his identity to that worthy fellow, Plan-' 
tagenet, whose honesty ] shall ever respect. Lady Marmyon and 1 
went on a visit to Bournemouth. Tliere we encountered an old col- 
lege friend ot mine, the Bishop ot Teheran, who is in England for 
the benefit of his health, and will, 1 trust, on no account venture to 
return to his, diocese. Well, there’s an old maxim, Robert, nemo fait 
judex in propositd causd, which being interpreted means, ‘ never sit 
in judgment on your own difficulties.’ So 1 thought 1 would solicit 
the good bishop’s advice— he used in the old days to row stroke of 
our college boat, and ]. was bow, so that 1 have been accustomed 
from my 3muth up to take the word from him. Eh, what?” 

This last exclamation to the fiunky, who had entered abruptly 
and muttered something inaudibly. 

” My lady. Sir Robert, desires to know if it is your wish that she 
should ©ome into the library now?” 

‘‘Er— ah. Ko. Tell Lady Marmyon that 1 am engaged with this 
gentle — with— er — ah — Mr. Robert Marmyon tor the present, and 
that 1 will send for her when we ar^ ready to talk to her. 

“ As 1 was remarking,” continued Sir Robert, once moro subsid- 
ing into-the recesses of his arm-chair, ” the good bishop and I dis- 
cussed this problem over a manilla — capital manillas they have in 
Persia, you can’t buy them in London — and, if I may say so, I saw 
daylight through his lordship’s spectacles. This is what he said — in 
effect. ‘ You^ Sir Robert Marmyon, owe a duly to this young 
man as your own flesh and blood. He owes a duty to you as his 
father. Your duty should lead you to do all in ybur power to qualify 
him for the high position which in the future will be his by inherit- 
ance. His duty is to co-operate with you in that benevolent design.’ 
Am 1 quite clear, Robert-?” 

” As plain as words can be.” 

“ Heie, however, again to be perfectly frank, 1 had to state a 
grave obstacle to the course of action suggested by the bishop. 1 put 
this question to him: ‘ Suppose we educate our son? He is not so 
old as to be unable to acquire knowledge, and perhaps culture, and 
his abilities, we are assured, are of the highest order. And further, 
suppose he marries this Delilah of his. She is not by birth a lady, 
and to dream of giving her education and manners is absurd. You 
may manufacture a gentleman, but a lady — no! The bishop pon- 
dered over this problem seriously. Like myself he w^as far too punc- 
tiliously honorable to suggest that you should fling over the girl 
without cause, but he could not underrate the obstacle. All he said 
was this— ‘ Robert is young, so is the girl. Do they know their 
minds? Above all, does Robert love the girl so intensely as to be 
w'illing— in cold blood, mind you, in cold blood— to give up his fut- 
ure for her?’ ” 


150 


UKDEE WHICH KING? 


“ I did/’ obseived the young man, in a strange, sepulchral tone. 
“ 1 ^v 6 uld have begged and starved for her.” 

Sir Robert tried hard to suppress a smile at this vehemence. Then 
he added, quietly, ” The bishop’s advice, to come to the point, was 
this, that you should go abroad for six or twelve months, with a 
tutor, to see the world; and if on your return you had not changed 
your mind, then that we should acquiesce in your project of emi- 
graiion. If the reverse, that we should receive you here, and recog- 
nize you as our heir.” 

“ The bishop,” observed Robert, ” reckoned "without his host. If 
Polly Williams had stuck by me, I’d have stuck by her — to the 
death!” 

“Yes,” responded Sir Robert, politely, “ 1 quite believe that. But 
of course now the case is altered. ” 

“And—” 

“ Simply this. Lady Marmyon, your mother, and 1 beg you, as 
OUT sou, to make an effort to elevate yourself to our level in the so- 
cial scale. You have in your veins the blood of centuries of knights 
and gentlemen. You boast a fine brain, capable of development. 
Fall in, then, with the plan we have formed for 3 mur benefit, which 
is simply this— a j'oung Oxonian of our acquaintance, a clever and 
agreeable man, wishes to travel. Join him; he will give you daily 
some little instruction. You will run over Europe, see a little of India 
and China, then visit that pet illusion of yours, the United States, 
and so home. You will have seen half tlie world, and 1 undertake to 
provide you both with ample resources. When you return, you 
will be welcome here, and, 1 will add, as.you seem to have mentally 
sketched certain philanthropic plans for the amelioration of the 
working-men on my estate, 1 shall be prepared to consider them, 
and, if practicable, to adopt them.” 

l^obert sprung to his feet. ‘‘ Sir Robert,” lie said, with emotion, 
“ 1 know not whether this is pride, duty, or parental affection, but 
be the motive what it may, 1 see that you mean to be a father to 
me.” 

“ 1 hope so, 1 pray so, dear Robert.” • 

“ And 1 should be worse than a brute if 1 refused to meet your 
"tushes. 1 will obey them. Sir Robert, for 3 '^our sake. For my own 
1 want nothing. My life is broken, shattered, lost!” 

“ Don’t say that.” 

“ 1 can’t help it. The words seem to burn my tongue. Y"ou don’t 
know' — nobod 3 ^ can know — how 1 loved that girl; how”— with a 
sob— “ 1 love her still! And oh, pity, pity, Sir Robert, w'hat will 
become of her when 1 am gone?” 

The baronet involuntarily bit his lip with vexation, but he was a 
good actor and concealed his chagrin cleverly. 

“If you mean,” he said, “that the girl must be kept out of 
mischief, I’ll guarantee that.” 

“ She will be the victim of that Irish blackguard,” groaned Rob- 
ert. 

“ Ko; I pledge you my w'ord to the contrary. Recollect, my son, 
I am paramount here. If 1 make old Williams understand that 1 
must be obeyed, and that it will be w'orlh his while to see that lam. 
obeyed, do you imagine that 1 shall be thwai’ted?” 


UNDEll WIIICII KIXCt? 


157 


“ And you pledge me year word. Sir Robert?” 

“ By ray honor, as a gentleman.” 

“ Then, 1 ol>ey, freely, readil 3 ^ My conscience is clear. But 1 
do so on this understanding, that 1 am following the bishop’s ad- 
vice to the letter. 1 leave England, and Polly. Should 1 return and 
find that i can not live without her, and that she has been acting 
differently — 1 mean tliat she has no lovers, and has kept herself for 
me — 1 may without breaking faith with you make her my wife, 
provided always that we emigrate. Is that so?” 

Sir Robert winced, but he answered, ‘‘ Yes,” his reflection being 
that in the course of twelve months much might happen; above all, 
that Robert himself might change. ” And now,” he added, rather 
nervously, ‘‘fora word with Lad}^ Marmj'On, and then, as 1 am 
going to town, perhaps you will join me, and we can at once make 
the necessary arrangements.” 

Robert looked a little surprised at the suddenness of this move, 
but he was really indifferent as regarded himself, wiiile in respect of 
Polly he preferred to leave her to her own reflections. That was 
his vendetta. 

There "was, however, no time for turning over in his mind a plan 
so hastily sprung upon him, for Lady Marmyon came sailing into 
the room wdth outstretched hands, and a smile of welcome on her 
courtly featuies. 

“So,” said she, “ we are to think of you as our son. AYell, you 
are certainly the image of Sir Robert, with something of the expres- 
sion of my poor brother. But,” with a little laugh, “ how swarthy 
you are, and what a hard hand you have!” 

' “ Honest labor, my dear,” interposed Sir Robert. 

“And — and— what’s the matter with jmur face and head?” in- 
quired Lady Marm 5 'on. “ Have you had an accident?” 

“ It was done on purpose, my lady,” smiled Robert, rather awk- 
w^ardly. 

With the baronet he was at ease; with her ladyship much. the re- 
verse.. 

“ Er— ah — ” explained Sir Robert, “ he behaved with gallantr}'-. 
An Irish ruffian, it appears, got up an affair with Williams’s daugh- 
ter!” 

“Oh!” interrupted Lady Marnij’-on, “that, very lovely girl that 
3 'ou talked about marrying?” addressing Robert in the most saccha- 
rine of tones. 

“ Yes,” responded her husband quickly. “ And naturally Robert 
resented the man’s behavior and the girl’s infidelity, and so"^ he took 
the law into his own hands. ” 

“ How very odd,” soliloquized her ladyship, as though a single 
combat with fists was an unheard-of event in this planet. “But 
surely that was wrong of the girl AVilliams?” 

“ So wTODg,” observed Sir Robert, “ that I think Robert will hesi- 
tate before hazarding his happiness with any young woman of that 
sort.” 

But'- Robert did not utter. He may have acquiesced, but ;he 
thought his relations with Polly too sacred to be chattered about 
even by his newly-discovered parents, 


158 


Ui^DEK WHICH KING? 

“ It is all very strangel” remarked her ladyship, after a prolonged 
and gawky pause. „t:: “ 

“ Strange but true,” aphorized Sir Robert. “However, let me 
see,” taking out his watch, “ it’s — er — ah — later than 1 thought. 1 
must be in town to-night, and Robert has agreed to be my compan- 
ion. 1 shall wire St. Vincent to meet us at the Grand to-morrow 
morning, and also to Errol, who will arrange for a suitable outfit for 
you, my dear son.” 

Robert looked surprised. Everything seemed so cut and dried. 

“By the way,” added the baronet, “1 oue:ht to explain that 
Horace St. Vincent is the Oxford man 1 alluded to, and—” 

“ And my cousin,” interrupted Lady JMarmyon, with some hauteur. 

“ And your future traveling companion, Robert. You will find 
him an easy, pleasant, careless man of the world. He is a musician^ 
speaks all the living and dead languages, has a keen appreciation of 
arc, and an endless storage ol anecdote. He knows everybody — 
grand-dukes, royalties, singers, scribblers, and brokers. 1 may say 
with truth that he has no particular principles — ” 

“ Except,” again interrupted my lady, “ the principle of honor. 
He is — ahem— ray cousin.” 

“ Of course, of course,” laughed Sir Robert. “ All 1 mean is that 
he is a political Agnostic, talks Imperialism, Radicalism, and Com- 
rnunisin in the same breath, and 1 defy anybody to say whether he 
believes most in Loyola or Huxley. The man, in short, is a kaleido- 
scope, immensely charming, quite the sort of fellow 1 should select 
as the best of good company, it 1 were g-fing a-joamiug.” 

“ But,” faltered Robert, rather appalled at this Crichtonish char- 
acter, “ I’m afraid he’ll find me much the reverse.” 

“ There you’re wrong,” warbled Lady Marniyon. “ Horace could 
not stapd one of your average fellows, w’ho are the precise double of 
everybody else. Y’ou are different. He will appreciate more than 
most men your, originality and independence.” 

“ Moreover,” murmured Sir Robert, “ he owes a pile of gratitude 
to me, and— you take my word for it — he will he more anxious to 
cultivate my son than my son to acquire his esteem, Ha!” — turning 
to the footman — “ carriage at the door. Quite so. I’m ready. And, 
by the bye, it's cold. Fetch my sealskin great-coat for Mr. Robert,” 

A rather hypocritical adieu from Lady Marmyon, and Robert found 
himself seated side by side with the baronet, whom he had feared 
and hated all his life, whirling down the avenue. The seal-skin coat 
struck him as the perfection of comfort, and the bear-skin rug the 
identical wrap for winter weather. In fact his sensations were as 
peculiar, almost, as it he bad been suddenly watted to another planet. 
It was only as the carriage rolled past Shepherd Williams’s cottage 
that he felt a pang, but he dismissed by an effort the bitter thought, 
having inwardly resolved to forget — if he could. '' 

They caught the train with just one minute to spare, and seemed 
to be at the Victoria almost before one halt of the allotted hour and 
a quarter had been passed. Then they drove to the Grand Hotel, 
and Robert had the honor, for the first time in his life, of sitting 
down to dinner with his own father. The repast appeared luKuri- 
ous, and the baronet was so good a talker that the gene of a iete-d-iete 
dinner in a private room did not oppress him. Moreover, to his 


UXDEE WTTirTT KTXG? 159 

nstonishmont, he found Sir Robert brimming over with fill sorts of 
projects for tne mental and moral elevation of the poorer inhabitants 
of towns, a cornucopia of charity which, the young man could but 
reflect, might appropriately have' begun to pour at home. It is mar- 
velous how philanthropic people can be so long as the cost tliereof 
does not pinch their own purse. 

Thus in quietude and comfort the evening passed away, and Robert 
retired to a bed, which was constructed to invite slumber, so fas- 
cinated by the glamour of his new surroundings as quite to forget all 
about his bruised and swollen features, the cut on his head, and most 
things connected with the old and humbler life except Polly. 

He could not forget his love, yet he thought of her angrily as he 
laid his limbs to rest as a gentleman for the first time in his hie. 


CHAPTER XXll. 

TWO EPISODES. 

As Sir Robert and his elder son were Journeying up from Kent, 
Errol Marmyon happened to be driving in the not very aristocratic 
parish of Whitechapel. He had directed the .Tarvsy of his hansom 
to a street bearing the euphemistic tit]e “ Blackpiidding,” hut Jarvey 
missed his ’way. He was an aristocratic Jarvey, whose haunts 
habitual were western, and in that undiscovered eastern clime he 
had no chart to guide him. 

“ A ou’re going all wrong!’' shouted Pirrol, through the aperture 
in the roof. “ Didn’t 1 tell you ‘ Blackpudding Street 

Jarvey muttered something betw^een. his teeth, pulled up sharp, 
and bouted ship without taking the trouble to glance over his shoul- 
der. The consequence was that another hansom in his rear descended 
with the crash of a broadside upon his flank, and before Errol could 
utter a word he was lying capsized on the pavement. 

Being quick and light of limb, he scrambled out somehow to dis- 
cover his Jarvey bleeding at the nose, having pitched upon that 
prominent organ, the other Jarvey in a state of mute misery, his 
horse being severely damaged, and the occupant of his cab on the 
pavement giving vent to English of the most river-sicle variety, in 
the most raucous and rageous of tone^. 

“ Good gracious!” he exclaimed, as soon as he caught sight of 
this infuriated individual. ” Why, Captain Dolopy!” 

” Errol Marmyon, by all that’s profane! And what, it you please, 
are you doing in Whitechapel, my dearest boy?” 

Errol laughed as he rubbed his* bruises. “ Business,” he replied, 
Jauntily. “ And you, rdy gallant captain, w'hat fascination has the 
Orient tor you?” 

” Did you ever know such a couple of idiots as these drivers?” was 
the crooked ans'r\'er. “ Here I’ve an anpointment overdue, and that 
poor wretch of a horse on the road there is only fit for the knacker’s, 
and your hansom horse 'is not much better, while l^oth cabs seem to 
have gone to pieces. It’s my luck. If I ever happen to be in a 
hurry,' an accident is a certainty.” 

“ But,” urged Errol, in answer to this logic, ” I’m not in a hurry, 
and yet I’ve come to grief . ” 


UXDEU ^VTirCH KliNG? 


100 

“ Oh, 3 ’'ou!” retorted Dolopy, “ j'oii’renot a case ia point. You’ve 
got capital, connection, everything. It’s poor animals like me lo 
whom Fate is so amazingly contradictious. Give you my word if 1 
bull, Mephistoplieles behind the scenes bears, and if 1 bear, he bulls. 
1 always make a rule of telling my dearest friends whether 1 specu- 
late for the rise or fall in order that they may go against me, and the 
benefit I’ve been, in consequence to my fellow-creatures is incalcu- 
lable.” 

” Yes,” drawled Errol, ” but in the present instance — '[ 

” Nobody’s the better. And yet 1 don’t know. This is an acci- 
dental meeting— very accidental— but it may enable me to do you a 
good turn. You’re not in a hurry, are you?” 

Errol responded in the negative. 

” That’s all right. Then let’s square these cabbies. It isn’t far 
from here.” 

” What is it?” inquired Errol, administering a miserable half- 
crown to his crestfallen Jarvey. 

” AVell,” replied Captain Dolopy, ‘‘it’s this. The tram from 
Algiers to Natal direct has not been taken up either by the public or 
the House, so that in fact — as it’s no use crying over spilled milk, 
don’t you know? — 1 am directing my colossal energies toward an- 
other concern. The public, my dear bo}', is not just now in the 
temper to look at foreign investments; electricity’s plaj^ed out; so’s 
mines; so’s water-works; so’s everythin'g except legitimate com- 
mercial businesses. Do you follow me?” 

‘‘ Oh, yes!” 

‘‘ A good paying concern, manufacturing for preference, is what 
investors will bite at. Now, I’ve got one, aijd I’ll tell you whiit I’ll 
do for you — I’ll put you on the Board, and give you your qualifica- 
tion.” 

” But what is it?” inquired Errol. o 

‘‘ Firstwate business! -Couldn’t be better! Fifty per cent, net 
profit. No risk. Ample and steady demand. Manufacture of 
vintage wines.” 

” Manufacture!” echoed the other in a tone of amused incredulity. 

” Well, not to beat about the bush, that’s tlie right word. Of 
course, the wine is not leally vintage; in fact, there’s not a drop of 
wine used in the process. But for an imitation, it’s perfect. You 
must taste our ’34 port, or Amontillado twelve years in bottle, our 
Pommery, our Chateaux Margaux and Steinberg Cabinet, These, 
however, are only the curios- of the establishment. We can give 
you, sir, a really sound vintage port, at a net cost price of fivepence 
half-permy a bottle. You must tr}^ a glass.” 

‘‘ Well, thank you, but — ” • 

‘‘ Oh, don’t be shy! It’s perfectly wholesome, and you’ve already 
drunk it hundreds of times without knowing it, only you've paid 
sixpence a glass, and we can make it cost price per bottle for less 
than that sum.” 

And he turned down an alley, through a dilapidated pair of gates, 
and into a court-yard emitting, to Errol Marmyon’s mind a singu- 
larly disgusting and acid odor. Then they entered a passage which 
led to an office, the characteristic of which was shabbiness plus dirt. 
‘‘ There!” exclaimed Captain Dolopy. ‘‘ There you see business. 


UNDER wnicn KING? 161 

No plate-glasg, no grandeur, no deception. The difficulty is, how to 
take the public into our confidence without letting the cat out of the 
bag and spoiling the trade. Still it’s to be done by very caretul 
wording. Did 3'ou ever write a prospectus?” 

‘‘Not exactly,” remarked Errol. ‘‘ They don’t award honors for 
prospectus- writing at Oxford.” 

” More tools they,” replied the promoting captain. “ It ought to 
form an element in the education of every man who expects to^make 
his way in the world.'” - 

In the meanwhile, in obedience to a signal trom Captain Dolop.y, 
a rather Israelitish-looking boy evolved, from his inner consciousneW 
apparently, a bottle of wine. The bottle was supremely dirty, and 
the services of all the spiders in Whitechapel seemed to have been 
call into requisition to impart to it the regulation cobwebby appear- 
ance. It was chalked, too, on the other side, to indicate where the 
crust would have been, had there been a crust at all to coagulate, 
while the cork might, from its extreme antiquity, have been tlie per- 
sonal property of Methuselah. This bottle t'apfain Dolopy received 
with reverence, as though not to ” keep this side up ” were sacrilege, 
and extracting a corkscrew from a cupboard, proceeded to remove 
the cork. At his command the Hebricule brought a brace of glasses, 
and having helped himself, and partaken, he passed the verdict 
“Beautiful!” 

With rather a wry visage Errol was persuaded to put his lips to 
this decoction, which his friend had gulped down almost greedily. 
In respect of taste, he found nothing to grumble at, but rather the 
reverse. Indeed, after imbibing bumper number one, he demanded 
a second edition. 

“ That’s right,” replied Dolopy. “ Do you no end of good after 
your pip, my boy. ” 

“ But,” protested Errol, as he placed his glass on the table, “ that’s 
wine— real hona -fide wine.” 

“ Of course it is. That is to say, it’s wine in the ordinary’- accep- 
tation of the word. You drink it at your club, at the theater, at 
the wine-bar, in private society. It’s the same game all round. 
You fancy you’re eating butter. Not a bit of it. Your butter is 
beef -suet. Vour bread contains other elements than wheat. Your 
Wiltshire bacon hails trom Chicago, your prime rnmp-steiik from 
Texas. As for tea — I’ll tell you what it is, my friend Marnlyon, 
when I’ve settled this wine business I’m going into tea, and after 
that I may touch beer. But — I was forgetting — you appreciate our 
’34 port, now you must trj’’ our Amontillado. It’s softer than silk.”- 

With the listless air of an idle man, Errol fell in with the notion, 
and after criticising Captain T)olopy’s artificial sherry, proceeded to 
taste his champagne, claret^ and other so-called wines. The decep- 
tion, he was forced to admit, was in most instances perfect, for the 
flavor was good, and the coarse, common spirit which formed their 
basis was somehow non -apparent. Nevertheless, after this course 
of criticism, he felt just a trifle exhilarated, and he did not hesitate 
to fall in with Captain Dolopy’s pd)position that he should joiu the 
Board of Directors of a company, to be forthwith called into ex- 
istence in order to work the business, and acquire the secrets of 
manufacture. • 

« 


102 UNDER WHICH KINO? 

This being all that Dolopy wanted, viz, the use of his ancestral 
name tor the purposes of financing, Errol was permitted to take his 
leave, and under the guidance of the Ilebiicule, he soon discovered 
the geographical positon of Blackpudding Street, wherein were 
situate the head-quarters of the Central Democratic Leverage Union. 

Mr. Flaymar was in, and received Errol by no means as a 
stranger, but with a certain show oC deference, indicative, perhaps, 
of an understanding between them. 

“ What is the news?” asked Errol, sharply. • 

Flaymar shook his head mysteriously. Then he made response 
in a halt-whisper, as though the walls had ears, “ The fat’s in the 
lire!” 

” Fat — tire — wdiat do you mean?” 

” This, sir. Conolly went down by train to Marmyon, and I’ve 
just received a wire to say tliat there's been a sort of a fight betw^'oen 
him and Robert. But that ain’t all.” 

“ He’s never — killed — Robert?” 

‘‘ Well, no, not that. That would not suit us, sir. But he’s in 
the hands of the police, and by the orders of the baronet, your 
father.” 

“,^Yud Robert?” 

” I don’t know anything about him. Conolly has wired for me 
or some one to go bail for him.” 

“ Bother!” ejaculated Errol, whose face w^as flushed with Dolopy ’s 
artificial wine. ” That fellow Conolly must be an Irish lunatic to 
strike Robert.” 

“ Conolly, sir,” retorted Mr. Hercules Flaymar, bridling angrily, 
” is, I would have you understand, a personal friend of mine, and 
a leading member of ihis important political organization.” 

Errol responded with a gesture of contempt, 

“Conolly,” he replied,” was to render the rupture between this 
fellow who is, 1 suppose, my brother, and that girl Williams, final. 
But he w'as to effect this wu'thoul violence or publicity. On that 
understanding 1 gave him twenty pounds.” 

^ “ Yes, yes, sir. But suppose the young fellow Robert, in a fit of 
jealousy, hit the first blow? Conolly in his telegram says, ‘ Not my 
fault,’ so he may have been forced into the row"” 

“ Don’t tell me. An Irishman never needs any forcing to make 
him fight.” 

“Well, sir,” observed Mr. Flaymar, drawing himself up to his 
full height and eying Errol Marmyon, much as though he hated 
him about as profoundly as he scorned his underhand ways, “all 1 
have to remark is that it’s no use your coming Jupiter over us here. 
You invited yourself into our premises yesterday evening.' Nobody 
asked you to honor us with your presence, and nobody here was 
likely ever to do so, you being an aristocrat and we a revolutionary 
association. Nevertheless, as Mr. Robert Marmyon is one of us, 
and as you were able to prove to me that our interests coincided 
with the wishes of your family, 1 tried to meet you in an amicable 
spirit. We agreed that this silly project of emigration and self- 
extinction which your brother cherished, in a measure owing to his 
idolatry of that village Venus, ought to be stopped, and when I 
suggested that Conolly was the only possible marplot, you simply 


UNDER AVHICH KING? 163 

jumped at the idea. And now because our friend and colleague lias 
got himself into a row in endeavoring to serve you, why, confound 
it, you round upon us, and want to lecture. It won’t do. ]\lr. Errol 
Marmyon. The law is strong, but secret societies can beat the law 
hollow, so let me recommend you to have a care. You don’t quite 
understand the forces at our command, or perhaps you’d tunk in- 
stead of bullying,” 

Errol listened attentively to ibis harangue, which was delivered 
much in the style of one accustomed habitually to address large 
audiences, but he was not allected by it. In fact, he laughed low 
as he rejoined, ‘‘ I didn’t know before to-day that 1 was an aris- 
tocrat. However, apart from that, it seems to me that 1 have dropped 
twenty sovereigns.” 

IVIr. Flay mar' reddened angrily. ‘‘I’ll wager you as much again, ” 
he said, ‘‘ that poor Conolly has made the split, and that this pre- 
cious brother of yours has given the girl the go-by?” 

Errol shrugged his shoulders. 

‘‘And what's more,’' continued the other, ‘‘you’ll have to Sec 
Conolly straight through this.” 

‘‘ How so?” 

‘‘ 1 mean what 1 say. \Ye are not thin-skinned in this quarter of 
the town. This is not Belgravia, neither is it Pall Mall, nor South 
Kensington, nor Maytair. We’ve nothing to lose here, or rather 
the agents we employ have not, so we make it a rule to protect our- 
selves, and it one of our lot suffers, we exact a penalty from those 
who are to blame.” 

‘‘^You’re a cool hand.” 

‘‘ And you’re a dodgy one. The difference between me, the 
revolutionist, and you the aristocrat, is this: i would be open and 
above-board if I could; you couldn’t if you would. Your nature’s 
sly and secretive, and you’re about as ugly a customer to hold as a 
conger eel. But you don’t wriggle out of my grip. We’ve done 
your dirty work, partly because it suited us, partly .because you 
made it worth our while. Having done it, we don’t intend, 1 assure 
jmu, to be left in the lurch. We shall hold you responsible for our 
mate, and if any punishment overtakes him we shall track you 
down and have our revenge.” 

‘‘ Oh!” ejaculated Eriol, defiantly, for the wine had rendered him 
indifferent, if not courageous. ” So that’s your game. Thank 3 'ou 
for telling me. Forewarned is forearmed, Mr. Flaymar, eh?” 

” Certainly it is. And therefore, sir, let me advise you to take 
steps at once— sharp— to get Conolly set free. He’s one of the most 
dangerous men in the country, and it he should be wronged he’ll 
have the whole Central Democratic Leverage Union at his back.” 

But Errol was, in his own judgment, brought to bay. He therefore 
quietly lit a cigar, and without vouchsafing a response to Mr. Flay- 
mar, put his hands in his pockets, and strolled leisurely forth into 
that dark and lonesome gully, styled appropriately Blackpudding 
Sti'eet. 

For all his Falstafflan courage he turned to glance over his 
shoulder ere ever he reached the end of the street. He was not 
followed, however, and when, after passing down an alley, he 
gained the main road, he called a cab with the full conviction that 


164 


Ui^DEK wnicil KII^G? 

Mr. Beicules Flaymar was nothing better than a vain boaster, given 
to the employment of empty and wild threats. Indeed, he felt so 
immensely amused at this interview, as to indulge in a fit of insane 
laughter to the astonishment of Whitechapel, which registered a 
verdict that the “ swell ” must have been on the drink, as indeed in 
a certain sense he had. 

* •jf * * * * * 

The morning following dawned upon Polly Williams darkly and 
gloomily. Father for the first time had come home a little less than 
sober. Mother was fretful {ind full of her own ailments. Home, 
in short, seemed much the reverse of paradise, and life, which a 
short time ago opened a glorious vista, had become suddenly a bur- 
den, She said she should die, and she thought so; but she knew 
that unless she took the law of destiny into her own hand, and 
brought the curtain down prematui-ely on existence, the end would 
not be jmt. Heart-breaking is a slow process. The first news that 
reached her was that Robert had been spirited away from the Court 
by his father. The next, that he had left no message for her. 
Lastly, that rumor had it her swain was going abroad. 

Polly, as we know, was young, sweet, tender, and gentle, with 
the skittishness of maidenhood. Nobody in the village of Marmyon 
suspected that one so simple possessed any latent force of character. 
In this estimate of her they were in error. Probably neither Joan 
of Arc nor Grace Darling in their teens labored under any such sus- 
picion any more than our Polly. History records concerning these 
maidens of noble quality that they proved themselves far more 
equal to cope with la force majeure than men of herculean strength, 
and so also this little Kentish girl, when cohfronted by fate,*dis- 
play'^ed resolution sucfi as proved her to be indeed sterling. 

“ Mother,” she said, quietly, “ 1 am going to London.” 

“ Going to fiddle-stick’s end!” was the maternal response. “ Not 
you, Poll 5 ^ Don’t ’ee talk such rubbidge as that. There’s the wash 
a-waitin’ for your pair of ’ands, and you.a-settin’ in that there cheer 
a-lookin’ like a thunder-storm.” 

” 1 meim it, mother.” 

‘‘And what,” with a little cynical, sneering laugh, ‘‘does you 
intend to do in London when you gets there, gal?” 

‘‘ 1 don’t know, mother.” 

‘‘ No more don’t 1. So just you stop that there silly nonsense, 
and get them notions out of your ’ed.” 

Polly looked at her mother as at a blank wall. If she ’could have 
spoken she would have expressed her utter surprise that a woman 
who had ever been a girl, and had experienced the shock of the 
wave men call love,- a wave that baptizes girlliood for good or ill, 
could be so utterly callous and unsympathetic to her own daughter. 
In silence she left the room and in silence returned bonneted and 
shawled, ready for her departure. 

Don’t ’ee be so willful and wicked, Polly,” sobbed Mrs. 
Williams, alarmed at this apparition. 

The tears in the mother’s eyes being the first symptom of feeling 
she had evinced attracted Polly, who paused on the threshold, and, 
strange to relate, smiled. 

‘‘I’m not wicked, mother,” she said, stooping and kissing the 


raDER WHICH KING? 165 

elder woman, “ neither am 1 willful. It’s my last chance, or 1 
wouldn’t go to disobey you. If 1 don’t see Him before he goes 
away to foreign parts, you may as lief order my coftin. So don’t ” 
— appealingl}'- — “ tiy to stop me. 1 made up my mind as soon as 1 
heard He was gone without a good-by, and 1 know I’m right.” 

But Mrs. Williams not being heroic, felt frightened beyond meas- 
ure. ” IV^hat ever will your’ father say, Polly,” she whimpered, 
” when he hears you’ve gone? And what be going to do for 
money?” 

Polly took out a little purse— Robert’s birthday gilt in the old 
happy days. “There,” murmured she, “I’ve enough, surely. 
Five shillings, sixpence, tour oennies, two farthings, and the new 
florin He put in the purse when He gave it me. But I won’t go to 
spend that; you may bury that along with me, mother.” 

And she laughed again, quite strangely, for her lovely eyes were 
sad, and their azure seemed somehow to have changed to a dull 
gray. 

Her mother shivered. “ Why,” she sobbed, “the railway fare’s 
a matter of three- and-six, return.” 

“ Yes, mother. But it’s only two shillings, single.” 

“ But you’ll take a return, Polly?” 

“ Ko. If I haven’t got money enough I can walk home. It’s 
under thirty miles.” 

^ And she turned away. 

“ The girl’s gone daft,” whined Mrs. Williams. “ Here, Mary ” 
— to her next daughter, who was minding baby in the back prem- 
ises somewhere — “ you slip on your bonnet quick and run off to 
your father to China meadow— he’s along with the sheep there .this 
morning— and tell him that our Pol’s gone oft to the station by 
herself. Ask him to try and stop her going to London. Quick!” 

Having, as she thought, done her possible to prevent her daughter 
from rushing into mischief, London, to the rustic mind, represent- 
ing pretty accurately. John Bunyan’s “ City of Destruction,” the 
good woman sat down to murmur and grunt to herself, being in 
truth as much chagrined at hei own lack of personal influence over 
her daughter as she was at the thought of the dangers and difllculties 
to which that guileless young giil was exposing herself by her pre- 
cipitate action. 

She had sat there chewing the cud of bitter disappointment for a 
long hour and a half, when suddenly the cottage door opened with 
a crash, and in burst her husband, looking angry and perplexed. 

“ Where’s Pol?” he demanded, savagely. . 

“ Why, gone to London, sure enough.” 

“ Gone to blazes ! You’ve sent 1 on a fule’s errand, wife. Pol 
wern’t at the station, nor hadn’t been there; and when the train came 
in from Maidstone, it went on to London without ever her being 
inside it.” 

“ Then where is she? She said she were agoing to London, and 
put on her best things to go in. AYliatever has becomed of the gal!” 

“ Blest it 1 can tell,” retorted Shepherd Williams, angrily. “ All 
I knows is I’ve been and lost half a day’s work through tlie pair on 
ye, and all for no good! Darn my old parish if i ever be gulled 
agin by a passel of women; and as for Poi, if she wants to go to 


1G6 


Cr^TDER WHICH KIHC? 


Loudon, let her go. She have made a bodge of it, she have, and it 
can’t be much wns, nohow.” 

“Yes it can, Williams,” sobbed his wife, ” and you know it as 
well as me. There’s wus happens to pore gals than the loss of a 
lover.” 

” JBe there?” retorted Williams, with unconscious philosophy, as 
he loafed off to tend his sheep and try and forget about his daughter. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

LOVE AND ANTI- LOVE. 

A SOFA in a quiet corner of a drawing-room in Curzon Street. It 
is the afternoon, one of those gray afternoons which seem to forbid 
exit from home, a London afternoon in short, raw, foggy, dispiriting. 
On that sofa sat hand-in-hand two people. They are not, needless 
to add, two men oi two women; in fact, the lady we know already 
as Miss Ida Frankalmoign. The gentleman merits a word of de- 
scription on his own account. 

He is emphatically one of the very latest products of civilization. 
His hair — to begin at the top of him — is long, amazingly long, .and 
wavy. His forehead lofty and intellectual. His beaming blue eyes 
large, dreamy, yet by no means devoid of humor. His mouth a 
little sensual— not very. His profile regular. He does not appear 
to wear a collar at all— at least if he does it begins somewhere about 
half-way down his chest, the intent theieot being to display a very 
feminine throat. He wears a velvet coat of a tint neither quite yel- 
low nor quite brown, and his hands might serve as a model for a 
sculptor. Such, in brief, is Horace St. Vincent, a gentleman of an- 
cestry, but not of acres; of versatility^ but totally devoid of all 
principles whatsoever; of eccentricity, tempered by a keen eye to 
the main'Chance. 

” Oh, fair dove; oh, fond dove,” warbled he, in a delicious tenor. 
” Hah! you like that melody. 1 wrote it one night under the stars. 
It was not an inspiration; it was an emotion. 6ue of those themes 
one drags out of one’s heart by main force. If 1 had written then 
another note — ” 

” \es,” said she, fascinated not a little by this rhapsodizing, and 
oblivious of the approaching bathos. 

” 1 should have d— died!” 

Ida started. He seemed so solemn, so unlike himself.' 

” But 1 didn’t,” he continued, glibly. ” 1 smoked a cigarette in- 
stead. Isn’t it an odd thing, Ida, mta, ajiropos of nothing in partic- 
ular, that 1 should be going round the world 'i Round this hideous 
planet, reflectively.” 

” You!” cried she, paling visibly. ” Why, Horace, what new 
craze is this?” a 

” A craze, pauperina, called common-sense, worldly wisdom, low 
cunning, that .sort of thing. Come, you know what my complaint 
it. _ I’m played out. I’m only twenty-four, that 1 gra'nt, and not 
quite a Methuselah; but the last six yeais, since 1 left Eton, have 
been crowded, slightly. 1 went to Oxford— lived as one does live 


UXDER WHICH KTKCt? 16 '? ‘ 

there— half mind, half madness— spent my immense patrimony — five 
thou., all told— spoiled the Egyptians to a similar tune, and— well 
— there you are!” 

” 1 don’t understand,” pleaded Miss Ida. 

” No? Ha! you never learned logic, cause and effect, antecedent 
and consef|uent; all tiie better for you.- Never develop 3’^our brain at 
tho expense ot your soul. 1 rpade it a rule to avoid that fallacy, 
and they ploughed me in consequence. However, d nous moutons ! 
WHien in this detestable climate a man ot my sort owes a lot of des- 
picable rufiians five thou., they have a habit ot hustling him, don’t 
3’ou see?” 

” Hustling!” 

“ They lock him up in prison, make him a bankrupt, and exact 
Nemeses ol all sorts. Why, only 3'’esterday a lawyer of my acquaint- 
ance. by way ot giving a bouquet to the Cliquot, assured me gravely 
that 1 was liable to be hauled up before some successful rascal at 
the Guildhall, who had made money by some disreputable process; 
and, of course, the fellow who has got it may be relied upon to come 
dowm heavily upon the fellow who hasn’t. Ergo, 1 decided that 
this island is rather too confined and cramped a spot for one of my 
exalted intuitions, and I’m off at once. That’s why 1 came to-day, 
and the fates are propitious clearl3'', for your dear mamma is out, so 
1 can make m3’' adieux comfortably.” 

Ida bit her lip. ‘‘ You don’t seem much pained at leaving me,” 
she said, or rather drawled. 

Now, at this speech 3'our regulation lover would have jumped, 
fallen on his knees, and uttered the biggest swear of protestation. ' 
Not so Horace St. John. He simply strolled to the piano, and began 
listlessly warbling “ Oh, fair dove,” as though nobody was in the 
room. 

Suddenl3q however, in the midst of a cadenza, he brought down 
his hands savagely on the keyboard with a couple ot discordant 
chords, twisted sharp round, and said, very quietly: 

‘‘ It can’t be helped, Ida.” 

” Of course it can’t, if 3'ou don’t wish it,” pouted she. ” All 1 
can say is that 1 must have been boi*n under an evil star. My love 
affairs end — end, before they have begun, almost.” 

” No, no,” he urged, returning to the sofa, ” don’t say that. I’m 
not Eriol Marmyon — parbleu, what a thoroughbred demon that man 
is. Perhaps you had a lucky escape. Certainly you had. ” 

“Why?” f 

“ I’ll finish my story. Tou’ve heard about Plantagenet and the 
plowman, eh? Well, Errol has hit upon a beau reve. The plow- 
man, it seems, is positively his elder brother, and heir to everything. 
Ridiculous, isn’t it? And that old fogy, Sir Robert, didn’t know 
what to do with this singular first-born ot his, who has not exactly 
dropped from the clouds, but rather emerged from the mud. teo 
Errol got hold of a bishop, or some other pundit, and he, the pundit, 
persuaded Sir Robert that it is his solemn duty to endeavor to man- 
ufacture a gentleman out of this uncouth lump of bucolic clay. To 
effect that he is to be sent the grand tour, and 1 am the selected 
bear-leader. Now, is my story quite intelligible? 1 means as far as 
1 have got.” 


168 


[JKDER WHICH KIHG? 


“ Oh yes.” 

” That, of course, is what our tutor used to call the -pmnUe. Now 
for the other thing. If this plowman should not return to his native 
land, why then, Errol, don’t you see, comes in for the entire estate 
and all the rest of it. So he has requested me as a personal favor to 
go on a whaling expedition, or to explore the crevices of the Rocky 
Mountains, or to try the effect of a tiger’s teeth upon the rustic hide; 
anything — so that this amiable plowman may be satisfactorily dis- 
posed of in a gentlemanly way. In that event — ” 

“ Horace, you make my blood run cold.” 

‘‘No, don’t. The heau rem is not music, remember, but Errol. 
As 1 was saying, in that event he proposes to write a check, and in 
any case before 1 return to England, home, and beauty. Sir Robert 
will arrange to compromise with the Philistines. When they find 
that I am actually exeated regno, they will take half a crown and be 
thankful. That is an arrangement which will suit me rather better 
than a matriculation examination at Her Majesty’s College of Hol- 
loway, or the pleasures of Pentonville, or the mirth of Mill bank. 
What do you think?” 

” And you are really going?” 

” 1 am,‘ Ida ma— going like the typical bird.” 

” But you are not going to— to do as Errol asks?” 

” That depends—” 

Horace!” drawing back from him, indignantly. 

‘‘La! la! la! Oh, fair dove; oh, fond dove.” 

“Horace!” 

“ That depends, carina, on — ” 

“ On what?” impatiently. 

“ Simply on you. Suppose 1 came back in nine months’ time 
with my plowman. Well, 1 come back a free man, free at least . 
from ticks. So far, so good. But what next? You wouldn’t have 
a man of my ideas Phew! It’s absurd. Of the two evils 

I’d rather bow myself off this terrestrial scene than descend to what 
is called bread-winning. Now, when 1 return, Ida, or thereabouts, 
you will be able to marry with or without mamma.” 

“ Yes,” gasped Miss Ida, “ but 1 must tell you something, a great 
secret. My mother is not so rich as people think. When my poor 
father died he left his very large fortune to me, with my mother as 
sole trustee for us both, she being entitled to— what do you call the 
concern?— oh, an annuity, that’s the term. But mother has been 
exceedingly silly. She has been speculating and that sort of thint*- 
and—” 

“You needn’t say any more,” smiled Horace, sweetly. “ When 
a woman takes to plunging, eh? Oh, fair dove; oh, fond—” 

“ Horace, how silly you are!” 

“ The silliest have their lucid intervals. 1 hold it still the wisest 
thing to drive dull care aw^ay. Do let us shunt business, carmima 
It s bad for the complexion. ” 

And he beg-an listlessly toying with her taper fingers in a strano-e 
and preoccupied way. 

“ Am 1 to say adieu?” she asked, after a prolonged pause. 

“ Yes, 1 suppose you must. For the present, that is to say. But 


UKDEll WHICH KmCr? 1G9 

I will wiite now and then when the fit seizes me. When— when 
there’s any ink about.” 

” Only now and then?” 

” 1 don’t know. Sometimes 1 thihk that ink is the greatest mis- 
take out. You dream a lovely love-letter of the loverest type, then 
you eat your breakfast, and sit down to write it. But the mood is 

f one, the ink won’t flow, and you write stilts instead of love. 

Vhen we are married, Ida, 1 will lie in bed and listen to your inter- 
pretation.” 

‘‘Upon my honor!” laughed she, echoing with a sigh, “when 
we are married. ’ ’ 

“ Why, wiiy not?” 

“ Oh, 1 don’t see anything to the contrary, except that there’s many 
a slip, and teacups will get broken, more particularly the pretty ones. 
Y ou see, Horace, my mother has been very silly, and she wants me 
to repair the mischief.” 

“ Of course.” 

“ First it was Plantagenet Marmyon. Then there w’as another re- 
pulsion whom 1 cleared out of my path by the broadest of broad 
hints. Now it’s a venerable absurdity who has had three wives 
already, and imagines by taking number four that he will cuie the 
gout. He is only seventy, and sloae-deaf, so hints are a little bit 
lost on him. But he’s a hundred-thousand-a-year man.” 

“ Y'ou don’t surely intend to — ” 

“ Not if 1 can help it. But you know one can’t always control 
destiny. My name’s Ida, not Lachesis.” 

“ Promise me this — that you will consent to nothing before my 
return.” 

Ida looked into his eyes. “ You are in earnest — for once — Hor- 
ace,” she whispered, half reproachfully. 

“ 1 adccit the soft impeachment.” 

“ Then 1 do promise, but 1 warn you, things may go wrong for 
all lhat. Mother sa 3 ’'s— and she never speaks without cause— that 
something must happen soon, or else her affairs will come to a seri- 
ous crisis.” 

“ In plain English, Mrs. Frankalmoign has gambled away your 
fortune.” 

“ I’m afraid that is the plain truth.” 

Horace St. Vincent walked to the window nervously, and it his 
lady-love could have caught the expression of his face, she would 
have shrunk from him. A moment, however, and his features 
were composed. Yet another, and there entered, almost as by 
magic, Mrs. Frankalmoign. 

“ So, so,” said she, in a very determined tone, “ 1 find youliexQ, 
do 1? And what right have you, Mr. Horace Vincent, to make love 
to my daughter behind my back?” 

“ Eh?” ejaculated Horace, affecting deafness. 

“ Y’ou heard what 1 said. Answer me.” 

“ Pardon me, my dearest Mrs. Frankalmoign,” replied Horace, 
with his most engaging smile, “ but 1 can not rWilly get you an invi- 
tation to Lady McTurk’s kettledrum. The cards were all out a 
fortnight ago. I’m really very sorry. ” 


170 


UKDEE WHICH* KING? 


The lady pursed her lip, and her eyes, that once had been beauti- 
ful and soft, glittered angrily, 

“ 1 did not allude to Lady McTurk,” she said. “ You have not 
answered my question.” 

“ I’m sure 1 beg pardon. 1 was inattentive. Ilou. refer to that 
box at the Lyceum? Yes. 1 can send you that by to night’s post 
with pleasure.” 

“Ida,” gasped the elder lady, almost speechless with wrath, 
“ tell this man, as he won’t hear it from me, what ] did say.” 

Ida gave her mother a look not quite unlike defiance. Then she 
turned to her lover, held out her hand, and in the most meaningful 
way whispered, “Good-by.” 

Horace smiled superbly, returned the pressure of her lingers, 
and, murmuring low, “ Your promise— 1 rely on it,” left the room 
before Mrs. Frankalmoign had actually exploded. 

Two Hours later he was seated iete-d-tete with Errol Marmyon at a 
little table in a corner of the Panurge Club. They were discussing 
savory meats, Ute de veau en tortue, ortolans, and the rest of the club 
menu for the day, over and above certain delicious vintages, and 
Horace’s plans for the immediate future. 

“ 1 shall rely upon the chapter of accidents,” laughed Errol, “ to 
play my trump card. You will leave England double-barreled, 
but you may come back a barrel less. ” 

“ Oh, yes, ” retorted Horace, holding his champagne glass up to 
the electric light to watch the rosy eliervescence. “ There are all 
sorts of risks in traveling, and ignorant bumpkins, you know, like 
this cub 1 am to bear — lead, are at times so very reckless. My dearest 
Errol, what a blessing it is in this world to have made a tabula rasa 
of one’s conscience, it’s a nasty, awkward, interfering customer 
and in the days of my milk-teeth gave me much annoyance.” 

“ That’s youi sort,” cried Errol, enthusiastically. “ 1 feit certain 
when 1 put my father on to you that 1 had spotted the right man 
Listen to me, Horace. I’ve had a lalk with our family lawyers and 
put the question to them plump: ‘ Supposing I was actually the heir 
of Marmyon what sum could jmu conveniently arrange for?’— down 
I mean, and what do you think they said?” 

“ Fifty thou.?” 

“ Fifty thou. !” indignantly, “ a good deal more than that, my 
friend. -So much that 1 could write you a check for all that and 
not miss it,” 

“ The awkward part of it is that 1 haye no sort of security— ex- 
cept your word. ” 

“That’s enough, surely?” 

Altro. 1 can’t say other wise. It mast be so.” 

Errol evidently distrusted his friend’s dubious tone, for he added 
with warmth, “ Look here, Horace. It isn’t only Marmyon and the 
family honor; it isn’t only getting rid of such disgrace as this pig 
of a creature Hodge- 1 can’t bring myself to think of him as m| 
biothei-— would involve us in. There’s another motive to influence 
me, .^d 1 don t mind telling you— in confidence.” 

“ Depone tutis aunhus” smiled Horace, superbly. 

You know Ida Frankalmoign?” 

“Rather.” ^ 


tJNDER WHICH KT.HG? 171 

“ Hut you don’t know this, that she and 1 are secretly — mind, 
Horace, secretly — engaged.” 

“No, Errol, I did not know that. 1 congratulate you. Here’s 
a bumper to JMiss Ida’s health!” 

And he pledged him with the most perfect insouciance, altogether 
in the guise ot a triend. 

“ Now,” continued Errol, when this pantomime was ended, “ you 
know well enough that I’ve no chance ot that girl, nor she of me, 
so long as I’m a pauper. She couldn’t marry men like you and 
me, Horace, men without means. That ogre ot a mother of hers 
wouldn’t allow it.” 

“ Wouldn't she?” dryly responded Horace. 

“ Certainly not. The gay widow has pots of coin, and — ” 

“ Indeed!” ejaculated the other. 

“ Why, of course she has. You must know that. Didn’t old 
Frankalmoign inherit a round rnillion? And isn’t it all tied up 
tight? Why, Hodd}’-, my boy, where were you raised?” 

Horace smiled, as he answered, “ We are not all so tly as Errol 
Marrayon.” 

“ Pshaw!” ejaculated that young gentleman, w^ho was growing 
impatient at what he regarded as his friend’s cussedness, “ you must 
have heard all about it. However, to cut a long story short, 1 mean 
marrying Ida, We have had a little sort of— ahem — lover’s quarrel, 
don’t you know? but it’s of no consequence. Ida loves me, and 
that’s enough. 1 know her heart, Horace, as thoroughly as 1 know 
my own, and 1 shall come forward and claim it the very moment 
you wire me that my unfortunate brother has gone dark. With 
such a stake pending,* you may rely on my liberality, not to say 
eternal gratitude.” 

Horace beamed across the table another of his too fascinating 
smiles. “Suppose,” he remarked, “that, after all, accidents 
would not be so very obliging as to happen, and this plowman 
brother of yours were to regurgitate— eh?” 

Errol smiled in turn “That’s your waggery, Hoddy,” here- 
joined, “ w^e w'on’t anticipate anything so truly horrible.” 

And suppose also that Mrs. Frankalmoign, who is a maneuvering 
and worldly species of mamma, should marry off the reel your 
sweet Ida to— ahem — the plowman?” 

“ You appall me,” gasped Errol. “ W*hy then of course 1 should 
be beaten all along the line.” 

“ It would be an awkward concatenation of circumstances,” ob- 
served Horace St. Vincent, sententiously. 

“So awkward,” remarked Errol, with a nervous twitch of the 
mouth, “ that 1 would rather dismiss it from my mind. Come, my 
friend, a thimbleful of cura^oa, and a game of billiards, eh?” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

“ LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. ” 

The courteous reader who has followed the thread of this nar- 
rative thus far will have perceived that it differs in design from 
ordinary descriptive dramas. We are not dogging the steps of a hero, 
nor of a human heroine. We are following instead the destiny of a 


172 UI^DER WHICH KING? 

liuge estate, comprising both real and personal property. The title 
is merely an embellishment, the pediment that crowns the vast 
structure— a bit ot furniture that one individual supposed to be in- 
terested in it deems rather supertluous than not. Our heroine, there- 
fore, is the unearned increment, the tract of land which the labor 
ot long centuries and the creation ot so splendid a market for pro* 
duce as London has centupled in value. It is the fate of the iin- 
earned increment on which the sympathetic reader must focus his 
attention. There is, as now appears more than evident, a scramble 
to possess our heroine, and in this melee there are many ambitious, 
not so much of possession as of partition. They crave a share of 
the coffers of the estate, and the bait is sufficiently tempting to over- 
come every scruple. Thus, while Errol, who is in the line of suc- 
cession, is over-anxious to enact the part of Cain, if only he may 
secure the inheritance for himself, others of different and antagonis- 
tic views are ready enough to descend to any level, however base, 
in order to grasp the unhallowed gold. Lembic, the philosophical, and 
St. Vincent the tcsthetic Tory, are as greedy and unscrupulous as 
Flaymar and Conoily the Communists. Robert alone, who has been 
taught in the school of the people, and Plantagenet, the man in 
whose veins flow the people’s blood, regard the prize with unflinch- 
ing eyes, and are little dazed by its glitter. But of these the former 
as yet hardly realizes its actual value, and the latter has not .yet 
begun to appreciate all he has lost. Circumstances may modify the 
temper of both, for this heroine of ours, this beautiful increment, 
is endowed with all the charm of a Delilah, all the fascination of a 
Circe. For the sake ot such, men, ay and 'women too, have ere 
now condescended to love loathly things, and to desecrate the ancient 
sacrament of marriage. More than that, if the Cain ot an elder age 
killed his brother for sheer jealousy, your nineteenth-century Cain 
will do as much, if only he has the chance of avoiding detection, 
tor cupidity’s sake. “ Rem ” is a young lady blessed with a super- 
fluity of suitors, but it is “ Quomodo ” who wins her, and laughs 
to scorn rejected “ Honeste," as he leads his prize to the altar to" re- 
ceive the beatitudes -of bishops and the adulation of Mammon. In 
taking “ Rem ” for a heroine we select the true lady-love of the 
whole world, the one professional beauty wLo can dispense wdth 
paint. 

“ Good-morning, my dear son. 1 hope you slept well. Eh, yes? 
That’s right. Take my advice. Always go to the newest hotel, 
the newest, mind jmu, because after four or five years’ wear and 
tear the er — ah— parasites, parasites you understand me, begin to in- 
crease and multiply.” 

” Robert looked a little mystified, the word “ parasites ” not being 
in his vocabulary. ” Rats?” he ventured to suggest, timidly. 

’‘Er — ah, no. 1 didn’t allude to rats. , 1 — er — ah — referred to a 
species of parasite that was not individually specified in the plagues 
of Egypt.” 

” Fleas, Sir Robert?” 

‘‘ You don’t quite catch my precise meaning, my dear son, and 
the noun commonly employed to designate these humiliating ad- 
juncts of our imperfect humanity is not one in vogue outside Bill- 
ingsgate. 1 may term them, perhaps, the superlative of fleas. But 


UNDER WniCH KING? 


173 


enoiigli. Suppose we begin breakfast? 1 asked your traveling com- 
panion, Horace St. Vincent, to turn up, but I shall not wait for him, 
Voung men of the present day ’’—speaking as though his youtli 
bad been spent in some epoch antecedent to the JNoachian deluge — 
“of the present day, Robert, despise punctuality, especially in the 
early morning. Tea or coffee v” 

. “ Coffee’s my drink. Sir Robert.” 

“ Er— ah, yes. You’ll pardon my saying that we don’t allude to 
anything as a drink. ^ Are ,you equal to a kidney?” 

Robert scratched his head. Then he replied, awkwardly, 

“ N— no, tliank you. Couldn’t manage that part of a sheep no- 
how.” 

“ Er— ah, you surprise me, my son. Ham? Is that in your 
line?” 

“ 1 can eat that,” smiled Robert, and fell to accordingly. 

“ Er— ah,’"* gasped the baronet, nervously. “ I — 1 don’t want to 
be rude, but, realljq you terrify me.’' 

Robert looked up from his plate, to which he had been paying 
very particular attention, to remark an expression of nervous horror 
on ids sire’s features. 

“It’s that knife,” protested Sir Robert. “ 1 dare say there’s no 
extraordinary danger in the way you employ it. But if you were to 
split your mouth open it would be distressing to us both.” 

“ 1 don’t understand,” said the young man, flushing. 

“There, there,” ejaculated the baronet, piteously. “1 was 
afraid 1 might abrade your susceptibilities, and after all Horace St. 
Vincent will, with his admirable tact, coiTect these little idiosyn- 
crasies. Pray go on with your breakfast.” 

But Robert had deposited his knife and fork and was looking 
more than half angry. “ I’m not fit company for you. Sir Robert,” 
he said. 

“ Nonsense!” was the firm and prompt rejoinder. “ We have 
not yet come to this, I hope, that a son, in whatever rank of life he 
may be, is not fit to associate with the father who begat him. No, 
no, Robert. But don’t be quick to take offense. There are a 
variety of little things you will have to learn, and, believe me, when 
you have once learned them, you will not be disposed to quarrel 
with those W'ho took the pains to teach you.” 

Robert resumed deglutition, but with the air of a proud man who 
had received an affront. The gilded pill is none the less a bolus to 
the realistic intelligence of a laboring man. 

Fortunately for both father and son the awkwardness of the situa- 
tion was relieved by the abrupt entrance of Mr. Horace St. Vincent, 
all sparkle, suavity, and smiles. 

“ How do you do, Sir Robert? And this is my friend that is to 
be, Mr. Robert Marmyon, I’m delighted to know you. Ha! kid- 
neys d la brochette. Quite!” 

And Mr. Horace sat down to his work with the promptitude of a 
man who means eating. 

“ So glad,” he ejaculated between bis half -kidneys — “ so glad to 
be going abroad with a citizen ot the world. You believe in equal- 
ity, Mr. Robert?” 

“ I’m a Republican,” replied the young man. 


174 UKDER WHICH KIHC? 

That is to say,” interposed the baronet, “ he thinks he is. Per- 
haps, after making acquaintance with men and things, he may 
modify his views, ” 

” That would be a pity,” rejoined Horace. ” Always swim with 
the tide. The stream just now is flowing toward that bottomless 
ocean, Democracy. It will ebb sooner or later, and then the correct 
form will be Imperialism. Opinions, my dear sir, are so many 
pawns in the game of life. You play them easily, and lose them 
with composure.” 

“ But,” suggested Sir Robert, ” supposing you lost your queen, 
and your bishops, and your knights?” 

‘‘ And your baronets, eh? Well, the game will be U P. But you 
wouldn’t* hare me miss checking my opponent for the sake of a 
pawn, surely?” 

” Then,” observed Robert, rather nervously, ” you don’t believe 
in nothing whatsomever. ” 

“Just so. You are on the spot, my dear sir, quite. 1 don’t be- 
lieve in nothing, because 1 do believe in something, On principle, 
1 believe in number one. This humble individuality, which i call 
self, is the one point around which all my interest centers, and I’m 
not unlike the rest of the world, except that I say what 1 mean, and 
the others don’t.” 

‘‘ Y'ou’re about right there, sir,” assented Robert. 

” I’m not so sure,” interposed’ the baronet ‘‘ Cynicism is very 
charming, and as a descendant of cavaliers I’m bound to admire it 
But one may go too far. There never was a more thorough cynic 
than Charles the Second, yet he called in a priest at the last. How- 
ever, to change the subject Y’ou two young gentlemen contemplate 
going a-roaming. How, what are your plans, Horace?” 

” Plans! Oh, I never make plans. The one force that propels 
me is the spur of the moment Will somebody hazard a . sugges- 
tion?” 

” That’s absurd!” muttered Sir Robert, testily. “ You can’t act 
in that way. Either you must start ma Europe, and work round by 
the Suez Canal or, 'cice versa, cross to New York, and — ” 

” That’s what would suit me,” cried Robert, eagerly. 

” Then,” said Horace, ” clearly that is the plan which must com- 
mend itself to my intelligence. Let me see ” — taking up the 
” Times ” — ” the ‘ King Lud ’ leaves Liverpool to-morrow. Well, 
we can run dowm by train to-night. Nothing easier.” 

Robert opened his eyes. Rapid action had been, of course, a 
dream of his. But the notion of packing up your traps and starting 
for the other side of the world, simply as a happy thought without 
a moment’^premeditation, almost took the breath out of his bod 3 \ 

Horace St. Vincent’s promptitude did not, however, affect the 
baronet similarly. To tell the truth, he was more than relieved at 
the notion of being spared the society of his son, with w^hom he had 
not one single idea in common, and whose habits and instincts were 
to his reflned sensibility most repulsive. He, therefore, did not per- 
mit Robert the chance of expressing an opinion, but assumed the 
plan w^as settled. 

‘‘ Very good, Horace. You remind me of Colin Campbell, who, 
when Pam asked him how soon he could start for India to put down 


Ul^DEK WHICH Kim? 175 

the Mutiny, replied ‘ To-day.’ But you’re quite wise. By travel^ 
ing in the late winter and spring you will avoid being broiled alive 
or devoured by mosquitoes. Novv for business. Robert here will 
want an outfit, and as he knows little or nothing of the subject, you 
had better afford him the benefit of your advice, Will fifty pounds 
suffice?” 

‘‘Make it a hundred,” answered Horace St. Vincent, coolly. 
“ 1 may want a few things myself.” 

” Ah, yes. Just so. Then i will draw you a check on Coutts, 
close at hand, and 1 conclude circular notes will suit you best as 
traveling money. You two gentlemen will turn up at luncheon — 
say two o’clock sharp. 1 will arrange the needful to your mutual 
satisfaction. Au rewir till then. I’m due at the club at eleven.” 

And so the diplomatic gentleman bowed himself off the scene, 
leaving Robert not a little'bewildered and Horace St. Vincent with 
a peculiar expression on his handsome features. 

As soon as the door closed the latter walked up to him in a quaint, 
affectionate manner, and said withaniuipulsiveness that might have 
been histi ionic or sincere, but was well acted anyhow, ” Come, 
Marmyou, let’s open the ball by shaking hands. tVe’re going to 
enjoy ourselves, don’t you know? At least that’s my notion. Eli?” 

” 1 hope so,” responded Robert, gripping the other’s rather deli- 
cate hand, with what seemed to be five horns. 

‘‘That’s right. Now to melt this hundred quid. 1 think the 
most judicious course will be to go to my tailor— a good fellow, but 
rather uneven in his temper when you omit to solace him with an 
adequate check. 1 owe him just now a small bill, and the sight of 
coin will cause him sensations of such supreme felicity that he will 
readily supply us with the necessary goods ad lib. Come, my ' 
friend.” 

Whereof nearly all was high Dutch to the unsophisticated intelli- 
gence of Robert, or perhaps he might have entered a caveat against 
this method of handling Sir Robert’s money. As it was he failed to 
perceive that his traveling companion contemplated paying a hun- 
dred pounds on account of his private debt, still less that he de- 
signed to obtain their outfits on credit, charging both to the account 
of Sir Robert Marmyon. Nemo fait reperde turpissimus, and your 
simple rustic bred in the bracing atmosphere of fiehi and furrow, 
never so much as dreams of the depths of dodgery to which im- 
pecunious gentility will descend. 

Moreover, as it happened, the financial arrangements between 
Horace St. Vincent and Snip, the Bond Street tailor and usurer, 
were transacted behind the scenes while Robert was being rigged 
w'ith sundry misfits; hence, when after the long business of shop- 
ping was concluded the pair returned to the Grand Hotel to lunch, 
one was completely in ignorance of the little busiutss which had 
been settled so very entirely to the satisfaction of long-suffering ]\Ir. 
Snip and of the other. 

Luncheon was in every way a supreme success. Horace St. Vin- 
cent’s chatter flowed in a long, constant, and mellifiuous stream. Sir 
Robert had been toned to au equable temperament at his club, and 
was bland and gracious. The viands and wines appealed strongly 
to Robert’s innate gastronomic sense, and being clad in Snip’s rai- 


176 UKDER WHICH KIHG? 

merit he telt. as he looked at his figure in tlie glass, that in spite of 
sundry rather damaging cuts on his figure-head he might fair Jy be 
taken for a member of the class in which he was born but not bred. 

They had conckided their repast, and were enjoying a cigar, when 
the waiter took Sir Robert aside, and whispered mysteriously that 
there was a young wmman down-stairs wished to see Mr. Robert — 
whoever he might be. 

Sir Robert’s brain did not as a rule travel very slowly, but he 
hardly caught the drift of the man’s utterances. He was, indeed, 
on the point of saying “ Show the young woman up,” when some- 
thing flashed like lightning across his brain, and, with a brief, 
” Excuse me for a minute,” he left the young fellows to their weeds 
and hurried down-stairs after the obsequious Mercury. 

Tes. There, teaiful, yet malgre her obvious distress, the lovely 
subject whereon were focussed the greedy eyes of two mashers and 
a venerable ogre, stood in the passage Polly Williams. 

Er— ah,” ejaculated Sir Robert, in a loue of ill-concealed irrita- 
tion as the waiter pointed her out, ” Who are you?’’ 

He did not really recognize her. His habit for long years had 
been to keep as much aloof as possible from his people, so that he_ 
was acquainted wdth their features only by occasionally remark-' 
ing them at church. 

” Polly Williams, Sir Robert.” 

“ Of course. 1 beg your pardon, my dear girl. And what do 
you want with me?” 

” JSfothing, Sir Robert. 1 didn’t go to ask for you.” 

” Ah, yes. I see. You’ve followed your love — that is, my son, 
Robert, here. Is that it?” 

‘‘ Y^’es, Sir Robert.” 

An awkward pause. 

‘‘ If you will be advised by me you will go home quietly. This 
is not the place for you, and — and tlieic are reasons why 1 give you 
tliis advice. It is for 5 mur good.” 

The wondrous eyes of the bucolic beauty gazed earnestly at this 
tricky, plausible man. The look was respectful, for Polly, like all 
the village, held the liege lord of the place in awe; but it was fear- 
less, and tor all the glitter of her tears, determined. 

‘‘ 1 can’t go, Sir Robert,” she pleaded, ” without 1 see Him!” 

” Y"es. Well, you can’t see Robert at this moment, and whether 
you see him, or not at all, must depend to a certain extent on him- 
self. Y’'ou had better wait a few minutes.” 

” 1 don’t mind what time 1 wait,” answered Polly, ‘‘ so long as 1 
gets a word with Robert. He don’t go to foreign parts without 
that, if 1 can help it.” 

Sir Robert regarded the girl meditatively. Thought he, ‘‘ She is 
marvelously pretty. She knows her intluence. Half a doz(;u sim- 
ple syllables from her lips will change Robert’s determination.. It 
must not be.” He therefore took her into the reading-room, sat 
her down in a corner, and gave her a book to read. Then he re- 
turned to Robert and Horace. 

The former, he soon perceived, had l)een paying very marked at- 
tention to the chau)pagne in his absence, lor his features were 
Hushed, and he was laughing loud. Besides 'which he had aban- 


UN'DER WHICH KIHC? 177 

cloned his role of reserve, amounting almost to taciturnity, and was 
talking excitedly to Horace. 

VVito a gesture to the latter, Sir Robert said, quickly, “ Don’t fail 
in your duty of gratitude, young gentlemen, to me. I’ve arranged 
for your luggage to he sent direct to Easton; so all you have to do 
is to take your ease m a hansom., But I am advised that you had 
better bd there in advance of your baggage, so that if you won’t 
think me rude, I shall venture to suggest youi immediate departure. 
Don’t you airree with me, Horace?” 

” Most decidedly,” cried that most acquiescent of toadies; adding 
to Robert, ” Come along, old man. Trains wmn’t wait, you know,” 

” Where to?” hiccoughed Robert, rising rather unsteadily to his 
feet. ” Going — to — go, stasliun?” 

“That’s it,” cried Bir Robert. 

“ Lesh have ’nother glash of thish stuff, then.” 

“ Bother,” muttered the baionet between his teeth, “ the fellow’s 
half -seas over already.” 

However, he helped him to a half -glass, and then by dint of chaff 
Horace St. Vincent wheedled him out of the room and into a han- 
som. Sir Robert hastily wished them bon voyage, and the maneuver 
was accomplished with cruel success. 

The baronet felt guilty as he returned to Polly Williams. He had 
tricRed and deceived the poor child, and he rather despised himself 
for it. But de rigeurhQ was not going to allow his conscience to show 
itself on his face. 

“ My dear girl,” he began, in an undertqne, “ you rniist prepare 
yourself for a disappointment. My son has left for a lour of six or 
perhaps nine months. Now don’t give way, but listen to me. 1 
do not tell you positively he would not, but 1 do say that he could 
not see you at the moment of departure. It was impossible. You 
had had a difference — a break 1 believe 1 may call it — and you know 
best whose fault it was. But 1 am authorized to assure you of this, 
and 1 do so for jmur comfort, that Robert, while he is angry and dis- 
gusted with the conduct you pursued tow^ard that Irish rascal, can 
not bring himself to give you up altogether.” 

“ Oh, Sir Robert!’' 

And the poor distressful eyes suddenly sparkled with joy, and the 
roses returned suddenly to the milk-white cheek. 

*‘ Altogether, 1 repeat: he exacted my solemn promise that during 
his absence you were to be my paiticulai charge. But he is no 
longer pledged to you. Understand that. He has now ample time 
to make up his mind. Your own act and deed caused the rupture, 
and it it is healed it will be by him. 1 am perfectly frank with you, 
as you perceive. Nothing would induce me to buoy you up with 
false hopes; nothirrg, on the other hand, to drive you to despair. 1 
cannot tell you that I wish my son to marry your father’s daughter, 
because that would be an untruth. 1 have higher ambitions for 
him. But you may rely on this, that if, when he comes home, he 
resolves to renew his suit to you, 1 shall offer no obstacle whatever. 
And now, my dear girl, as 1 am going back to Marmyon by this 
evening’s train, you will, if you please, accompany me.” 

“ Y"es, Sir Robert,” sobbed Polly, hysterically, for the latter utter- 
ance of the baronet had neutralized somewhat his optimist declara- 


178 


UXDEH WHICH KING? 

tioD, “ and lhank you, 8ir Hobcit. But I do wish as 1 could have 
wished him good-by.” 

‘“Robert has not said good-by,” rejoined the diplomatic baronet, 
” and it is very far from likely that he will say it alter he does come 
back.” 

“ But,” faltered Polly, “ perhaps he won’t never come back at all.” 
” Ah,” cried Sir Robert, ” 1 never thought of that.” 

Anri so these two, the lord of many lands and the simple maiden, 
went back together to Marniyon — as friends. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A RISK NOT COVERED BY INSURAKCE. 

Robert Marmyon sung snatches of rural ditties, notably about 
“ The Barley Mow” and the famous Maidstone ‘‘ Hog-tub,” where- 
in the lockless lover was immersed, to 'the strain of ‘‘ 111 never go 
theer no moo-oo-oor,” till the hansom reached Easton — much to the 
disgust of Horace St. Vincent, who bundled him quick, not into the 
hog-tub but into the Liverpool express. In the corner of a first-class 
apartment this fine young fellow, who had throughout been proof 
against the fascinations of the Marmyon Arms beer-barrel and gin- 
bottle, but had succumbed easily to those of Mr. Simkin, dropped 
into a heavy sleep, and when he actually regained the full possession 
of his faculties found himself in what at first appeared lobe a largish 
cofiin that was, alter a moment’s lefleciion, easily recognizable as 
the berth he was to occupy during his passage across the Atlantic 
Ocean. 

The huge floating city, yclept the “King Lud,” was already 
under way, and the sea beat against her dead-lights with the volumi- 
nous thud so Strang® to the untutored ear of a landsman. He had 
no recollection of liow' he came on this shelf, where he had been re- 
posing with his clothes on, for how long he could not surmise; in- 
deed, "his head felt so inclined to execute the gyrations of the wings 
in a musical-box, that he deemed it prudent to lie still and try to 
sleep. Unluckily, the thought of Polly Williams flashed across his 
bram, and at that moment, but for ids top-heavy cranium and a 
peculiar sensation of nausea, he would have gone aloft and peti- 
tioned to be put on shore. As it was, poor Polly, who was crying 
her eyes out in her humble bed under the shepherd’s roof, had her 
vendkta. Robert could not sleep, and he lay tossing and burning 
till daybreak, when, as fate would have it, he dozed ofi into a leaden 
slumber. 

It must have been at least four hours later when the cheery, 
though rather satirical, voice of his traveling companion sounded 
aloud in his ear: ” Halloo, my gay friend! going to sleep the whole 
voyage ? Come, you must surely have got over the mops and 
brooms by now! Why, we’ve done breakfast half - an hour ago. 
Bless the man, what an object he looks!” 

“ I’ve gone and got the yeddache,” gasped Robert for once — he 
was, as a rule, fairly correct in his pronunciatiou— adopting the 
Xentish rendering of the most ill-used letter in the English alpnabet. 


UKDER 'WHICH KIITG? 179 

’* What’s that?” laughed RoTace. ” Yeddache, did you remaik? 
"Well, my triend, the true panacea for all complaints of the ‘ yedd,’ 
ha. ha! is soap, with a little water added. You’ll find both treasures 
aboard this small craft. And the next best is, it 1 may suggest, a 
clean shirt, and a complete change of raiment. There lies your box, 
and here is the key, of which 1 have been the careful custodian. 
After the soap and shirt have been surmounted, breakfast has been 
Known in parallel instances to work wonders. Ha, ha! excuse my 
brutality. ‘ But you do wear such asubJimely ridiculous expression! 
1 have never yet been hanged — that is a pleasure to some — but 1 
should imagine that after the operation 1 should be fit to play ‘ Box 
to your Cox.’ ” 

After which rattle Mr. Horace St. Vincent rushed away inconti- 
nently, to return, however, within half a second, and insinuate the 
perhaps by no means unnecessary caution to one so inexperienced 
as Robert that it would not be the correct thing to put in an appear- 
ance in the saloon until such time as a complete revolution had been 
eflecred in his person and appearance, ladies being ubiquitous. The 
headache had % no means gone; in fact, Robert rather thought it 
was a degree more torturing to his temples than in the middle of the 
night. His tongue, too, was cleaving, it not to his gums, certainly 
to the roof of his mouth; and, indeed and in truth, if only he could 
have been supplied then and there with a small bucket of tea or 
soda-water, he would have preferred vastly to lie down and suffer 
alone. Horace, however, had adopted toward him rather the tone 
of a leader, if not of a master, and somehow he did not like to rebel 
at starting. Hence, with a heart as leaden as his head, he washed 
and dressed to the best of his ability; and, feeling slightly refreshed, 
emerged from his berth and began to reconnoiter the geography of 
the ship. 

In the saloon, among the crowd of passengers whereof the major- 
ity, the ladies not excepted, seemed to have carefully removed all 
the color from their cheeks and lips, to have substituted in its place 
the hideous chloride' tint of dissolution, and to have fetched up 
every line and wrinkle they could boast, Robert had no difficulty in 
espying his traveling companion, who was engaged in very close 
conversation with a fattish military gentleman. " He was about to 
move slowly in his direction, when across his path flitted a familiar 
clerical figure. Involuntarily he stopped to stare, in true rustic 
style, and the stare was returned, critically and inquiringly. 

'Then the clerical gentleman, whose tall commanding presence 
attracted general admiration, advanced toward him with, “ 1 think, 
sir, we must have met before somewhere in the wide world?” 

Robert smiled rather gawdtily. 

” You are Mr. L’Isle,” he replied, ” and you came to our village 
to preach for our parson.” 

‘‘Yes, doubtless. But, my friend,! have been to so many vil- 
lages in my time, and have preached for so nrany parsons that yomr 
description puzzles rather than enlightens me. My parish is the 
world.” 

‘‘ ]\Iarmyon is our village.” 

‘‘To be sure. Now,! think ! remember. You see, ! have an 
extraordinary memory for faces, and when ! preach ! do not, like 


180 tJKDEK WHICH KIHG? 

some men 1 could name, fix my eyes on the ceiling or the floor. 
1 try to use the power ot the eye as well as the magnetism ot the 
tongue, and to watch the precise ellect ot every word 1 utter. That 
will explain my remembrance of your features. You sat in the 
middle of the church, on the south — that is to say, on the right-hand 
side facing east — and of all the congregation you were the only one 
whom 1 failed to influence. Am 1 right?” 

” Yes, sir, perhaps you are.” 

‘‘ And so it happens that, in the mysterious course of Providence, 
we meet tor the second time. 1 *am going to America to endeavor 
to found a brotherhood. You, 1 presume, on business or pleasure. 
Well, sir, 1 trust this accidental rencontre may be profitable to us 
both. Don’t be alarmed, I’m not going to inflict a sermon upon 
you, but perhaps you will favor ^le now and then with a little 
friendly talk. Kent is my ideal England, and its people 1 regard as 
the cream of the English rural population. 1 hey are as independ- 
ent as the northerners, as polite as the west-countrymen, as vivacious 
as the French, and the shire has produced the two greatest humor- 
ists of the century, Charles Dickens and Thomas Ingoldsby.” 

Hobert could but look as he felt, gratified by this handsome tribute 
to the land of his nativity, but he responded somewhat awkwardly: 
” Kent’s not a bad place to live in, except ’lis tor laborers.” 

Father L’lsle gazed for a second rather curiously on this bronzed 
specimen of nature’s gentleman,?whose raiment was that of the lords 
of creation, but whose accent and manner were not quite in keeping 
with those gorgeous integuments. 

” And your name?” he asked, almost hesitatingly. 

” They call me Marmyon, nowadays,” was the odd reply to this 
simple query — ” Robert Marmyon.” 

Father L’lsle’s eyes seemed to expand. 

‘‘ A son ot Sir Robert?” he added, in a tone of slight incredulity. 

An expression ot mystification overspread the good father’s face, 
but he bowed politely as he said. 

“You will find me on deck any time before luncheon, Mr. Mar- 
myon, if you happen to be disengaged and disposed for a talk.” 

Then he moved away, and Robert advanced upon Horace St. Vin- 
cent, whose attention has been so closely riveted on the conversation 
ot his military acquaintance that he was unaware of his presence or 
propinquity. 

“Ha!” he exclaimed, “here is our young friend. Come, this ia 
an improvement. Clothed and in your right mind, eh? A little 
coppery perhap.s, or rather cobwebby. Hie, skipper — what do you 
call yourself? Breakfast for this gen tlmean— sharp. And a hair of 
the dog that bit him. Cliquot, Pommery, aioet— any mortal brand. 
By the bye, 1 am oblivious of my social obligations. This ” — turn- 
ing to the fattish military man at his side — “ this is my friend. Cap- 
tain Dolopy. And this, Dolopy, is my traveling companion, Robert 
Marmyon.” 

“ Charmed,” observed Dolopy, extending a white hand, which 
Robert gripped. “ Knew your brother intimately. Saw him— when 
was it? not two days ago. And how do you like sea-sickness, Mr. 
Marmyon?” 

“ 1 baint tried it yet,” answered Robert. 


UKDER WHICH KIKG? 181 

** No? Well, then, take my advice. Eat heartily. Don’t spare 
the ship’s champagne. It’s superb stuff. And you will escape it 
altogether. Experiocrede 

“ 1 baint up to much feeding, this morning,” observed Robert, in 
a solemn and doleful tone. 

“Nonsense!” rejoined Horace. “Imagination — that’s all. 
Here as the repast appeared—” fall to as a matter of duty, and 
the elTect of deglutition will be to sharpen your appetite.” 

Everything looked nice and was well served. The motion of tho 
ship seemed tantalizing, perhaps, but Robert soon accustomed him- 
self to it, and indeed executed, circumstances considered, a very re- 
spectable fantasia on the knife and fork. 

While he was eating, Horace and Dolopy resumed their conversa- 
tion, which was of a decidedly confidential character. 

“ You see,” said the latter, “ the way of it was this: I have been 
in treaty for a good twelve months with a Yankee prospecter— a 
certain Judge Potterer, of ’Frisco, though he never was a judge at 
all; but that don’t signify. The title of judge, you see, gives a 
sort of flavor to a prospectus, and adds at least ninety per cent, to 
the assay of samples of ore. Well, I was engaged in forming a 
syndicate to run that other company I told you of, for manufactur- 
ing vintage wines at something less than the price of ordinary black- 
ing, when Potterer wired me to come across. That’s why I’m here, 
1 may tell you, tor Potterer’s business is simply Al. He’s the very 
’cutest cuss of the very 'cutest nation under the sun.” 

“ And what,” inquired Horace, “ may his business be?” 

“ Simply this: There is a gold-mine in California which enjoys a 
certain reputation. When I say it’s a gold-mine, I mean it. . There 
is a deposit of gold there over and above the necessary salt. If you 
invested a large capital and didn’t happen to be robbed, you might 
make a fortune out of it. That, however, is not quite the point. 
This mine, which consists in all of seven distinct sets, called after 
the names of the original prospector’s seven wives, the Julia, the 
Mary, the Susannah, the Sarah Jane, the Popsy, the Lizzie, and 
another, whose name 1 forget — it don’t matter— Is the property of 
Jodge Potterer. Is that good enough?” 

“"Plas he the title-deeds?” 

“ You anticipate me. He can have the title-deeds— on termq, At 
present they are in the possession of Mr. Silas Scragson, of Saratoga 
Springs, the original prospecter. I am told in confidence that there 
exist in the background several liens upon these documents, amount- 
ing — in the round, don’t you know — to a little over a hundred thou- 
sand dollars.” 

“ How much be a dollar?” inquired Robert, with his mouth full. 
He had been absorbing the information of Captain Dolopy with 
quite as positive zest as the viands before him— perhaps with rather 
more. 

“ Something under a pound,” retorted Horace, impatient at the 
interruption. “ Drive on, Doll, old man. This is dramatic.” 

“ A little over a hundred thousand dollars,” continued the pro- 
moting captain. “But that’s a trifle. In England the people 
holding a lien of tenpcnce-halfpenny would collar the title-deeds 
and throttle the whole concern. They manage things better in the 


182 


UKDER wmcir Kmcr? 


States. By an arrangement witli tlie creditors of the concetiij oiir 
friend, Judge Potterer, will enjoy the complete use ot the title-deeds, 
with, ot course, liberty to mortgage, sell, or otherwise manipulate. 
Kow, do you see the point?” 

” Partially,” remarked l-lorace. 

‘‘ You naturally ask why they want me over at r'risco and k^ara- 
lon-a? Well, the answer is simple. Potterer and 1 have to square 
the whole lot of people who have got fingers in the pie. Keady- 
money, do you sa}''? Nothing of the kind. That emphatically 
would not be good enough. What we have to negotiate is— division 
of profits; and, as for the best possible of reasons, they don’t con- 
fide blindly in the judge, who would diddle the mother that baie 
him it he had the chance; and as they believe in me, unaccountably, 
1 have to give a guarantee as to an equitable arrangement.” 

” Here,” interposed Horace, ” 1 am getting a little out of my 
depth.” - . , 

‘‘Naturally. To explain, then: Suppose we agree on thirds; 
creditors one- third, the judge another, I another, with a liberal al- 
lowance for expenses. In that event, the judge and 1 return to Lon- 
don sharp, with the legal documents amply certified by the district 
registry, and all that sort of thing, with a sackful of specimens, aua 
a small volume ot assays. Then we shall proceed at once to borrow 
on the mine, by deposit of title-deeds, every fraction of a cent we 
can raise. It it can’t be done in London it can in Paris, and to 
avoid the slightest liability we shall put in a vender. I’ve got an 
excellent subject — a poor fellow in the last stage of consumption, 
who wants to leave his wife a trifle to start a shop.” 

” Splendid!” roared Horace, clapping his hands. 

” The next step will be to try and run a company; hut that the 
people who advance the money will have to accomplish single- 
handed. The public is not as sweet on gold as 1 could wish. "S ou 
will perceive, however, that our business — Potterer ’s and mine — con- 
tains all the elements of perfect simplicity. We have to beat the 
creditors down to the lowest figure. Then wm, or rather 1, for that 
part of the affair devolves on me, have to raise the money on behalf 
of my client, the consumptive vender, and 1 may tell you that Pot- 
terer won’t look at a less loan than fifteen thousand pounds. "When 
once we’ve pouched those pieces the matter may drift. That is my 
view of the case. 1 am far from greedy, and five thou.— my third 
share— will pay me 'well for less than three months’ work, and will 
also enable me touun successfully the biggest thing 1 have in the 
office— the manufacture of vintage wines at a price, sir, to dely 
competition.” 

‘‘ It seems to me,” said Kobert, quietly laying down his knife 
and fork, ‘‘ that somebody’s going to lose his money.” 

‘‘ Such is my desire,” responded Captain Dolopy. 

‘‘ That bain’t right,” retorted Robert, looking straight into the 
shitty eyes ot the promoter. 

‘‘ It you mean,” said Horace, ” that money-making is in 'princi- 
ple wrong, I am with you; but if your idea is that this is an excep- 
tional case, and that, whereas money-manufacture in the abstract is 
ennobling, this is the reverse, 1 must tell you that you are out in 
your calculation. The operation my friend here contemplates is one 


tTKBER WHICH KING? 183 

■which rests upon the secure basis of the ancient ethical principle of 
commerce, crj^stallized in the formula, Caveat emptor — in plain En- 
glish, that the man who parts must look out for himself.” 

‘‘ Besides which, added Dolopy, ” it will never do to lose sight 
of this one grand truth, ihat what is one man’s gain is another man’s 
loss. You can’t both win your stakes. After all, the great million- 
aires -the jMackays, Jay Goulds, and Yanderbilts of the States, or 
the Rothschilds of the Old World — enjoy the sweets of life at the 
expense of the misery of millions. It’s the same all round. You 
like sweetbreads, eh? So do 1. Consequently we hire a cad to go 
and rob a poor calf of his life— a life as capable of rational enjoy- 
ment as our own; the cad butchers the calf with the maximum of 
suffering that diabolical ingenuity can inflict, and then we sit down 
and gloat over a fractional part of the calf’s corpse. Is that your 
notion of justice? because if it is it’s not mine. Fact is, there’s no 
such thing as justice. The only national philosophy is for every 
one to take care of himself— in money matters, at all events.” 

Robert shook his head. This novel system of ethics did not by 
any means square with his preconceived ideas. It was not the phi- 
losophy of Plesset Wood. 

‘‘ M}'' good sir,” continued Captain Dolopy, almost petulantly, 

” your views of life appear to me to be most crude and primitive. ' 
Look at your own case. You, so our mutual friend Horace St. 
Vincent informs me, are the son and heir of my dearest friend, Sir ' 
Robert Marmyon, as fine a gentleman as ever walked in shoe- 
leather. Good. In the futuie, if you survive your father, you will 
live like a fighting-cock, on what? On the daily sweat of a small 
colony of your fellow-creatures. IS ay, more; you are at the present 
moment eating the food they provide. Who pa 3 's for the admirable ? 
bottle of champagne we are enjoying— another glass, Horace, if you i 
love me — w^ho but Sir Robert Marmyon? And who pays Sir Robert j: 
Marmyon? Why, those wretched drudges who plough and sow, f 
and do all that kind of thing. Every drop 1 swallow represents f 
so much hard labor. And so, my dear sir, ifs you spoil the Egypt- | 
ians, you can’t grumble at me if I do the same. Your method, or # f 
rather your father’s, is old-fashioned, yet essentially cruel. Mine il 
represents the special intelligence of the latter half of the nineteenth f' 
century, and is merciful. The children of Israel, wdio will probably 
part on the security of Potterer’s title-deeds, are so wealthy that | 
they will not leel the drop of fifteen thou., or, for the matter of that, | 
ten times that sum ; whereas your poor Kentish serfs would be made | 
gloriously happy by the addition of the heavy percentage jmu strike 
off the aggregate result of their labor. See?” 

“Yes,” answered Robert, rather bitterly, ” I do see. ]. see that I tV; 
am a traitor to the belief that is in me.” 1-^ 

“Good graciousl” laughed Horace; ” what 'sentimentality is C 
this? Really, really, this must be the precursor of mal-de-mer.'” 

” What’s that?” inquired Robert, half testil 3 ^ 

“Nothing, nothing,” laughed Dolopy. “Let me offer you a -jt 
cigar, and you can then, having metaphoiicnll}’- swallowed ever so 4 
much Kentish labor in that bottle of fizz, enjoy the condensed toil jp 
and anguish of the negroes of Havana. It’s a very g(>od one, 1 as- in - 
sure you, and doubtless cost those cousins of the missing link no Ifi: 


184 UNDER WHICH KING? 

end ol trouble, (vbile Ibe profit, 1 dare swear, went to the ruffian 
who imported it. lloino, liomini, lupus — which 1 may interpret as, 
‘ We are all cannibals.’ For myself 1 should relish a larger slice of 
human fleBh than 1 have as yet been able to grab.” 

“But,” retorted Kobert, accepting the protlered cigai, “how 
would you like to be eaten?” 

“ Not much. And what’s more, 1 don’t intend to be, so long as 
I’ve a tooth in my head to bite another duffer with.” 

The conversation taking a rather personal tone, Horace suggested 
a move, so they went on deck. Pacing the length thereof, his while 
locks floating in the breeze, strode Father LTsle. He at once took 
possession of liobeit, and thus Dolopy and Horace St, Vincent w^ere 
left once more to a congenial tete-cL-Ute. 

“ That’s an average cub of yours,” sneered the former. 

“ A cad,” replied'the other, airily, “ yet, by a strange paradox, a 
cad with the best blood of England in his veins. He is rather a 
trial, not one spark of e^nt or chaff in him. A serious, glumptious, 
Balptist Chapel j^oung man, veneered over with all sorts of cut-and- 
dried principles. If he’d got any vices 1 should not despair of him; 
but he hasn’t such a thing about him, though he takes his tipple 
kindly, 1 remark, and may develop the sort of sottishness cads affect. 
It pays me to act as his nurse, but he*s not precisely a credit to go 
about with, and in fact the earlier he beats a retreat the better it will 
suit my book.” 

“ How so? Beats a retreat 

“ Well,” in a half-w^hisper, “ it’s not necessai'y, you know, that a 
cad of that sort should regurgitate at Marmyon Court, and play old 
gooseberry with the family honor. As a cousin of Lady Marmyon, 
1 should be dad if she could be spared that disgrace. It would be 
quite too-too!” 

“ Yes?” 

“ And in fact — between you and me — if he didn’t happen to put in 
an unw’^elcome reappearance, don’t you know’, Errol w’^ould be pre- 
pared to do the entire handsome trick by yours truly.” 

“ Ha! a stroke of genius quite. Now, my boy, 1 begin to quaff 
the milk of the cocoanut. To wdiat sort of tune does Errol propose 
. - to play?” 

Horace looked round over his shoulder. They were alone, entire- 
ly beyond ear-shot of everybody.” 

“ Fifty thou.” 

Captain Dolopy cast a meaningful glance at his friend. Then he 
said, in a low tone, “ Yes, that’s good enough — good enough for 
! two, Horace,” 

: “Eh?” 

An affectionate hand lighted on Horace’s shoulder, and a voice 
whispered, “ Halves,” 

“If you'll manage the trick, yes, Dolopy.” 

“ Kight, But hush! here is the cad.” 

;; He was but just in time to close the open lips of Horace, for^arm- 
' in-arm with Father L’Isle llobert passed, listening attentively to the 
’ quiet, earnest utterance of the servant of a better kingdom than that 
" of Mammon. 


UKDER WHICH KIHG? 185 

A fragment of Father Lisle’s words fell unwittingly upon the ear 
of either. It was this: 

‘‘ Bat you know you might die. 'You are young and strong, yet 
neither youth nor strength allords an insurance against early deatli.” 

Dolopy looked at Horace, Horace at Dolopy. It was the look of 
sympathy in sin that only tlie case-hardened can communicate from 
eye to eye. Neither spoke; but they shook hands, and the diabolical 
pact was struck and ratified in the very teeth of the warning of the 
man of God. 

“ That parson,” murmured Horace, in a low tone, as the forms of 
the father and Robert IMarmyon dwindled in the distance of the long 
decR— “ that paison for once was on the spot.” 

“An inspired prophet,” laughed Dolopy. ‘‘ If only 1 could retain 
the services of that elderly gentleman for the day before settling 
day!” 

” Or for the eve of the Derby? ’’'suggested Horace. Then they 
both laughed, as, with their mental vision, they measured the heir of 
unearned increment for his coffin, and priced him much as a butcher 
might a prize ox at a cattle show. 

‘‘ It’s a dangerous thing,” remarked Horace, after a pause, filled 
up with the puffs of their cigars, ‘‘to be the heir of a large rever- 
sionary interest.” 

” Yes,” replied Dolopy, ‘‘ we can’t be .too thankful that we have 
been mercifully spared any such extraordinary risk. You, 1 imagine, 
Horace, are neither a Crmsus in the present nor in piospect.” 

” jyiy stock-in-trade is bills— unpaid bills.” 

” Quite so. And mine, bills of exchange, more or less negotiable, 
together with a large and varied selection of shares, not, 1 am glad 
to say, registered in my name, and of no particular market value—., 
miscellaneous, in fact, very. We are about on a par it strikes me.” 

‘‘Clearly, therefore,” rejoined Horace, ‘‘it is a duty incumbent 
on both of us to avail ourselves of every opportunity of creating a 
balance at our bankers’. 1 always do mj’’ duty when J can.” 

‘‘ So, Hoddy, my boy, does this child. Rut 1 fancy it may be ad- 
visable to postpone any immediate performance of the duty we owe 
to ourselves until we arrive at ’.Frisco, That sweet spot is a bourne 
from which all travelers do not return.” 

‘‘ I know nothing. Bear in mind I know nothing,” reiterated 
Horace, nervously. 


CHAPTER XXVl. 

“open SESAME,” 

While the fate of the broad acres of Marmyon was thus trem- 
bling in the balance, the man who for over twenty-two years had been 
regarded as heir to them under strict entail, was vegetating alone, un- 
friended and solitary, in a small lodging at Brixton. He had 
selected that quarter of the town for his domicile because it 
oflbred a sate retreat from his quondam assciates; but the sur- 
roundings jarred upon his sensibilities which, though naturally., 
tough enough, had been trained to refinement. He had been accus-’ 
tomed through life to the rarest luxuries— above all to that perfect; 


186 tJKDER WHICH KTXG? 

a 

cleanlinoss and order which constitute the charm of a mansion like 
Marmyon Court. The change to rather stufty rooms, the service of 
an unclean Abigail, dirty furniture, dirtier linen, the odors of the 
kitchen, and the inquietude of an overcrowded house, were painful 
in the extreme; moreov^er, he lived a solitary life entirely, for he was 
at once too proud to make fresh acquaintances in his new sphere, and 
to revive those of the old one. The poor man brooded and suftered. 
He was still alike weak and thin, after the terrible fever which had 
brought him within an ace of death, and his arm remained in a 
sling, while his visage still bore traces of the punishment it had 
received; and though the scars had healed, he presented rather the 
appearance of a veteran of the prize-ring. 

It w^as about a month after Robert departed for America, when 
Mr. Blaydon, solicitoi and factotum, received a call from this poor 
gentleman. Mr. Blaydon belongs to the variety of lawyers whose 
connection lies chiefly among the junior members of the aristocracy. 
He is a-dealer in reversions, and has obtained a favorable reputation 
as being accommodating and facile, without being more than usuri- 
ous. In the old days, he had made without question an advance 
ml) rosa to the supposed heir of Sir Robert Marmyon, taking by way 
of security no more than his autograph on stamped pai^cr. 

“ Well, Mr. Plantagenet Marmyon, and how is Mr. Plantagenet 
Marmyon!” w\as his dry greeting. He spoke in the sort of tone that 
might mean a sneer or a welcome, as you chosedo interpret it. 

‘‘My name,” answered Plantagenet, reddening, “is Hodge. 
Oblige me, ]\lr. Blaydon, by recollecting that. It is a poor compli- 
ment to address the man who has cast oil the lion’s skin as though 
he were really a lion.” 

“Yes,” said the lawyer, casting down and focussing, as it were, 
on the pattern of the carpet a pair of cold gray eyes that harmonized 
perfectly with a verv bloodless complexion. “ But what about my 
advances to— not Mr. Hodge, but Mr. Marmyon? Principal and 
interest, they amount, all told, to something in excess of three thou- 
sand pounds. Y’ou, my dear sir, may, if yW are so disposed, aban- 
don your reversionary interest in Marmyon without a struggle. I 
cannot aftord to give my consent to any such act of quixotic in- 
sanity. You came into my oflice. You asked me to advance jmu 
money on an alleged reversion. 1 did so. And now you tell me 
that the story about the reversion was all a mistake, and you expect 
me to lose niy money with resignation. Won’t do, Mr. Plantagenet!” 

Thus addressed, tlie big, dejected man raised his fine hazel eyes, 
wherein sparkled just a little of the old fire and force. ” Quite so,” 
he replied, ” and your claim was one reason of my call to-day.” 

^ The lawyer peiked up and looked astonished. 

“My position, as- you are aware,”' continued Plantagenet, “is 
delicate, peculiar, embarrassing. 1 wish for your advice, if you will 
favor me so tar?” 

Mr. Blaydon bowed. *5 

As far as 1 am concerned, under no circumstances, not even to 
meet my liabilities, will 1 stoop to the unutterable baseness of con- 
testing the rights of the man whom 1 have supplanted, who is the 
real heir. You shake your head, Mr. Blaydon. Wait, however, till 
you hear me out. 1 repeat, 1 could not obtain - the mheritunco if 1 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


187 ■ 

were to claim it, and 1 would not if 1 could. That’s my final deci- 
sion. But it happens, though you may not he aware of it, that 1 
owe my utter prostration through typhoid — perhaps the total wreck- 
age of a naturally strong constitution — to the rascal whose reputed 
brother 1 once was, Errol Marmyon. 1 cannot w’ork for my living 
to-day as 1 could wish. 1 may not be able to W'ork for six months 
or more — perhaps never. 1 have, therefore, 1 assume, a right of 
action against this man who would have ended my days in order to 
gain what was my inheritance, and also the girl 1 love. I ought to 
say that we both love. But 1 am unwilling to commence legal pro- 
ceedings of such a character as would gibbet Mr. Errol’s rascality, 
and bring eternal disgrace on the name of Marmyon. 1 cannot 
endure the thought of injuring Sir Robert. With him 1 have no 
quarrel. How must 1 act?” 

” You can leave it to me,” said the lawyer. 

” Certainly, provided that you explain fully the line you intend to 
adopt.” 

” Y'ou had heiter leave it to me,” responded the lawyer, doggedly. 

“ For what reason should 1 instruct you to blindfold me?” 

” For your own sake, sir. Don’t you know that a man who is his 
own lawyer has a fool for his client? You want me to advise, yet 
to be able to reject my advice. That won’t suit me.” 

” Nothing of the kind. 1 only ask that you should not in my 
name take any step at variance with what 1 consider to be the riglit 
and honorable course. ’ ’ 

But Mr. Blaydon would not acquiesce, so Plantagenet at once rose 
to leave. 

“ You had better give me your address,” said the lawyer; and ac- 
cordingly the other wrote it down. Then he turned to go. 

Mr. Blaydon, however, did not intend him to retire quite so easily. 

As a parting shot, therefore, he ciied, ‘‘ Have you any proposition 
to make me?” 

“Proposition!” echoed Plantagenet. 

“ Y’es, of course, proposition for liquidating the large sum you 
owe me.” 

“None.” 

Then Plantagenet, pale and proud, strofie forth, murmuring to 
himself objurgations on the umvisdom he imagined himself to have j 
evinced in having intruded upon a law^^er of that type. He was like j 
many another honest gentleman, painfully disillusioned. The polished j 

blood-sucker who hitherto in the days' of his prosperity had lick- . 
spittled him, and indeed tiad run to meet his every wish more than 
half-w^ay, appeared now in his true colors, false as Erebus, cool, cal- | 
culating, and cruel, and as ready to crush as to fawn. He had not,* i 
it is true, said very much, his reticence contrasting strangely wuth \ 
his normal volubility. But his manner was unmistakable. It was 
indicative of hostility, not to say malice. Shylock had dropped his li 
ducats, and was ripe to recover them by an expedient, however black- | 
guardl}’’ and indecent. | 

But his disillusionment was as yet by no means complete. A :| 
gentleman living in the free atmosphere of field-sports, good fellow- f 
ship and honor Wight as the daylight of midsummer, never suspects, , f 
and certainly cannot realize, the unutlerable baseness of the money- | 


188 uin-der which king? 

making; classes. The gentleman and the working-man occupy the 
same platform of integrity; and tliough the former when he happens 
to be a landowner, is apt to utilize the leverage he holds to wring far 
moie than his fair share out ot the land, still he is almost invariably 
as far remote from chicanery, larceny, usury, and wholesale plunder 
as the laborer himself. 

That evening, while he was reading a novel adapted to his small 
intelligence, one of the sporting sort, with a foxhound for a heio, 
the filthy Abigail snuffled out something anent a gentleman who 
wished for an interview. 

PJantagenet liung down his book and his pipe, and awaited the 
stranger. 

“ Which, sir, my name’s lubber. Pr’aps you don’t call to mind 
my features. I’ve seen you before a many times.” 

Plantagenet surveyed him critically. He was an ancient, a nery- 
ous, and a seedy sort ot specimen. His nose was red, his eye was 
watery, his hand tremulous, while, to impart a Georgian dignity, lie 
wore round his neck a choker of the Regency period that covered 
the acre of humanity lying between the ear and the collar- bone. 
His was one of those too sympathetic souls that craves to kiss every- 
body’s boots, only the Georgian stock placed an embargo on this 
very humiliating ambition. 

”1 don’t know, sir,” said Plantagenet. “Yes, I’ve seen you 
somewhere. Ah, 1 remember: at Mr. Blaydon’s. You’re one of 
his clerks. Well, what do you want?” 

A tear welled in that watery eye, and the voice shook with the 
husky emotion suggestive of Geneva or Glencoe, as it replied, “ I’ve 
ventured to call, sir, as a friend. It ain’t my business, and that 1 
am free to confess, but it goes to my ’eart, sir, to think of the pitfall 
as—” 

” Pitfalll What nonsense is this, man? Speak, will you?” 

For the excess of emotion had caused the gentleman with the 
lachrymatory glands to pull up sharp as he approached the point, 
gurgle and chuck his chin, and finally take refuge in a large and 
dusky flag of the hue designed to disguise brown rappee. 

“The pi — pitfall,” gurgled the voice, with another epileptic 
chuck of the chin, “ has been laid by the reptile, sir. Yes, the rep- 
tile who calls himself my master!” 

“Eh? What? Old Blaydon?” 

“ Blaydon, sir, is his name, and Blaydon, sir,”— with an idiotic 
emphasis — “ is his natur’. If you takes, sir, the epithecks ‘ bleeding 
of “em to death,’ and ‘ flaying of ’em alive,’ and roll them into one 
word, .you have, sir, the word Blaydon. Blaydon, Mr. Marmyon.” 

“ My name’s not Marmyon.” 

“ Beg pardon. The docyment’s made out in the name of Mar- 
myon, alias Hodge, but that don’t signify. It ’tain’t the Marmyon, 
it ’taiu’t the Hodge, as the law wants. It’s the individual meant. 
That’s it, sir; and it 1 was to serve you with a suirrmons by one 
name or t’other you’d have to appear.” 

“ What the dickens, old man, does all this palaver have to do 
with me? Hobody’s going to serve me with a summons. I’m a 
pauper, but not juk yet a criminal.” 

” Arc you quite so sure of all that, sir?” 


TJKDER WHICH KING? 189 

“ Confound your impudence,” roared Plantagenet, ” 5 'ou don’t 
suppose I’m goin^ to stand this kind of impudence from Blaydon or 
you or any otlier man. Clear out of my rooms, will you, or—” 

‘‘Come, come, you need not be so sharp!” retorted he of the 
choker, his eyes suddenly losing their feeble fondness and assuming 
a disgusted expression. ” 1 tell you. I’ve come all the way out to 
Brixton, living as 1 do when at home in the neighborhood of the 
Seven Sisters, to give you the tip. 1 says to myself, I says, as you 
left our office to-day, now what a cruel shame it is iis that pore gen- 
tleman don’t know more than a baby what’s in store for him. Shall 
I, says I to myself, give him the chance of saving his skin'i?” 

‘‘ And your conscience answered in the affirmative. All right, 
drive on, and say straight what’s in the wind.” 

But it was not in the nature of an old lawyer’s clerk either to drive 
on or to say straight. Before commencing at all he had to chuck 
his chin at right angles to his face, then draw it back and insert it 
behind his buckram stock, to cough and grimace, and apply the Hag 
to his nose. These preliminaries settled he did come to the point, 
startlingly. 

‘‘ Blay don’s instructed me to go down to the city and take out a 
summons against you for obtaining money under false pretenses.” 

Plantagenet looked at the man steadfastly. The watery eye did 
not flinch. This was truth. 

‘‘ If you doubt me,” continued Mr. Jubber, ” here is the paper,” 
extracting a roll from his pocket; ‘‘you can satisfy your curiosity 
if you please.” 

‘‘ ThanKs, no. It’s unnecessary, quite.” 

“If,” proceeded Mr. Jubber, ' as one who has spent a lifetime in 
the law, 1 might be so bold as to advise, 1 should say make a clean 
breast of it to Sir Robert Marrnyon.” 

The big man colored slightly, stretched his limbs, fixed his atten- 
tion on the fire, but did not answer. 

‘‘ Ton see, sir,” added IMr. Jubber, ‘‘ an affair of this sort would 
affect Sir Robert as much as you, and he wouldn’t care to have his 
name paraded in the polled reports.” 

‘‘ Quite soT' cried Plantagenet, his slow intelligence gaining sud- 
denly a glimpse of daylight. ‘‘Quite sol You’re- right there. Yes, 
Sir Robert ought to know.” 

” Which,” remarked Mr. Jubber, rising abruptly, ” 1 wish you a 
good-night, Mr. Marm — Mr. Hodge.” 

Plantagenet rather winced at the cognomen Hodge. 

It was just a little too much for his stomach at this crisis, albeit 
ho steadfastly refused to be styled Marrnyon. Mr. Jubber perceived 
the thrill of pain, and remarked, as he retired toward the door, 
” ’Tain’t my business, but if 1 was in your shoes, sir, I’d be Mar- 
myon and nothing else till 1 was stopped by Act of Parliament.” 

Plantagenet smiled sadly, shook his head, and replied, ‘‘No, 1 
can’t accept that advice, but i will see Sir Robert without delay, and 
— and— I’m much obliged to you for forew’arning me. ” 

Mr. Jubber, his hand on the door, cast one critical and inquiring 
glance, the meaning whereof was utterly lost upon Pl.antageuet’s 
density. Then he closed the door after him with a brief “Good- 
evening.” And as he emerged into the street Miss Abigail over- 


190 UNDER 'WHICH KINO? 

heard him mutter, savagely, “My— ain’t he mean neither? Might 
have stood a drink, or half-croivn for a cab, or a bob for the ’bus! 
That's what comes of doing business with shady swd Is. It don’t pay. 
Never yet knowed a fellow out at elbows to have a spark of grati- 
tude. ‘However, I’ve done as Mr. Blaydon ordered, and no doubt 
the baronet will stump up.” 

On the morrow, Plantagenet, having previously dispatched a wire 
to notify his advent on important business, took the earliest feasible 
train to Marmyon, strolled leisurely from the station, eve’^" familiar 
spot causing him mental pain. He avoided the recognition of the 
villagers as far as possible. The majority salaamed in the old fash- 
ion, but one or two stared him full in the face, and one added to that 
rudeness the brutality of bursting into a fit of laughter. It was an 
ordeal he felt keenly, for he had been studiously nurtured in the 
pride of birth and family, and his hideously false position would 
have tortured a man of even coarser fiber than his. 

As he passed the M armyon Arms, a biggish fellow, of rather rowdy 
appearance, addressed him. 

“ The top of the mornin’, sorr! Could ye tell a gintleman the 
toime, sure? Oi’ve bad the misfortin’ to pawn me gould repayther 
in consequince of havin’ bin sint tor a month to the thread-mill at 
jMaidsfone for hammerin’, sure, that spalpeen, the felly that calls 
himself Sir Kobert Marmyon's son. Oi thank ye, sorr,” as Plau- 
tageuet referred to his watch; “and, bedad, if oi’m not mistook 
intoirely, it’s the t’other one as was turruned out that 1 have the 
honor ot adthressin’.” 

Plantagenet, casting upon Mr. Mike Conolly — whose brogue may 
at once be recognized — a sort ot blank, indifferent glance, remarked 
casually, “ Yes^^ I’m the man,” and moved away as one in a dream. 

“ Thin, bejabers, it ye’re goin’ up there to the Coort, sure, ye 
may tell the ould divil, the bar’net, sure, that Moike Conolly will 
he ayvin wid him, plaze the pigs, befoor he’s done! Say that, will 
ye, me dear sorr, and oi’ll do the same for you another toime.” 

But although Mr. Mike shouted this message aloud after Plantag- 
enet, his words fell on deaf ears. There was cause enough for tire 
man of broken hopes to coucentiate his thoughts on the business 
before him, lor he Avould rather have plucked out his right e3"e than 
have sought this interview with Sir Robert. lie had passed tlirough 
bitter experiences. This seemed to him the bitterest, the most 
humiliating, of all.- 

Slowly, painfully, and with an effort to suppress the sob that 
seemed ever rising in his chest, he wended his way to the Court. 
Never had the place, albeit it was the dreary, early spring ot Eng- 
land, looked so magnificent, so lordly. The giant elms, the tower- 
ing gables, the very chime of the clock- tower, all seemed to sound 
in his ear, “ See what you have lost;” and the grand belt of wood 
above them, with its myriad whispering branches, to re-echo that 
taunt. He could have esteemed death at that moment, for he real- 
ized now the immense chasm between the grandeur of iiis old home 
and the sqindor of that cramped and squalid life in Brixton. What 
was there to live for now? Honor — the pomp of pride and power — 
that was gbne forever. His love was dead. If he had had a pistol 


UNDER ^vUICn KIND? , 191 

in his hand he would there and then have lain a corpse at the gate 
ot the earthly paradise he had lost. 

There was no such alternative, and the bitter cup had to be 
drained to the dregs. Summoning, therefore, all his small stock of 
moral courage to his aid, he walked to the portal and rang the bell. 

He had expected, naturall 5 % to be admitted by one ot the flunkies, 
and this might have been so had not his wire premonished the one 
virulent enemy he had in the world. As it was, the old black oak 
door-way swung on its hinges, and there stood before him, to bar 
his entrance, the man whom once he had tried to love as a brother, 
the companion ot his childhood, his boyhood, and liis young man- 
hood, Errol Marmyon. 

“What do you want here?” 

Flantagenet’s blood rushed to his temples, but he made no answer 
to this brutally direct query. 

“ What do you want here, 1 repeat, Hodge?” 

This was more than Plantageuet could bear. His chest heaved, 
his nostrils dilated, as with a supreme effort he responded, “ Sir 
Robert Marmyon. ” 

“ That is no answer. You must state your business.” 

“ Are you acting by your lather’s instructions in refusing me ad- 
mittance?” 

“I decline to be cross-questioned. Be good enough, Hodge, to 
state the purport of your visit.” 

Plantagenet looked as though the object of his morning call was 
to fell the speaker with his one available list. Cut he replied with 
a calmness of tone that was a contiadiction to the fire in his eyes. 

“ 1 shall be glad lo explain the cause — the causes, 1 should say — of 
my intrusion to Sir Robert Marmyon. Tliey are for his private car. ” 

“ Indeed. Then 1 am instructed to inform you, Hodge, that you 
may at your leisure communicate with Sir Robert Marmyon’s so- 
licitors.” 

“ Do 1 understand that Sir Robert declines to see me?” 

“ Y’ou may understand that before you can be allowed to cross the 
threshold ot this house you must first explain the nature of your 
business — for 1 presume you would not have the effrontery to in- 
trude here except on business — to me.” 

Plantagenet paused, passed his hand over his forehead and re- 
flected, while Errol slowly but positively began to shut the door in 
his face. 

“ Stop!” said Plantagenet at length, placing his strong hand on 
the handle. “You demand the nature ot my business. It is two- 
fold. 1 will mention the first item only— to demand satisfaction 
from Mr. Errol JMarmyon for having, with the aid of Professor Lem- 
bic, of Oxford, conspired lo procure my death by typhoid poison.” 

The huge, heavy door yielded to bis gentle pressure, and in a trice 
swung back with a dull thud upon its hinges. He had uttered the 
“ Open Sesamel” 


192 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


chapter XXVll. 

A FATALITY. 

“Perhaps, as you descended upon us to threaten,” sneered 
Errol, “ you bad better hurl your lightning at my father’s head. Be 
good enough to follow me. He is in the library.” And he turned 
his back and strode away. 

Plantagenet in silence followed him accordingly to the familiar 
room. Sir Robert’s sanctum. 

“ Mr. Hodge,” cried Errol, flinging open the door and entering. 

The sire and his son were of an opposite temperament; tor whereas 
the latter had treated his quondam brother with the grossest con- 
tumely, the latter ran to meet him with outstretched hands and 
beaming smile. “ My dear I^'lanny, so glad to see you ! This is in- 
deed a pleasure. And where have you been all this time?” 

The mournful eye of the big fellow as he grasped the baronet’s 
hand told more than halt its tale, but Errol stood by with a smile of 
sneering sarcasm on his face, and ere ever Plantagenet could re- 
spond, cut in with “You need not be in such a hurry to welcome 
Mr. Hodge, father. He is not here as a friend!” 

“ What!” gasped Sir Robert, bridling confusedly. 

“ Perhaps when 1 state the reasons for my intrusion you will bo 
better able to judge whether 1 come as a friend or as an enemy,” re- 
joined Plantagenet. 

“ Certainly, certainly,” urged the baronet. “ Pray, Errol, do not 
anticipate.” 

“ 1 arn not in the habit of doing anything of the kind,” snapped 
that young gentleman; “ but Mr. Hodge has already condescended 
to reveal the purport of his visit.” 

“ Thai is the case,” observed Plantagenet, quietly. “ 1 was chal- 
lenged to speak, and if 1 had held my tongue i should have been 
denied admittance to this house.” 

Sir Robert cast a suspicious look at Errol, then he remarked, 
quietly, “You two men never could agree, and it’s not likely that 
matters will mend between you at this time of the day. Errol, 
oblige me by retiring. 1 conclude, Planny, your confidence is for 
my ear alone.” 

“ That man,” said Plantagenet, as Errol closed the door, “ is im- 
placable. He has left me a wreck. 1 am as weak as water, and 
more broken in health than in fortune. The enmity he speaks of is 
this — that 1 consider myself entitled to compensation from him for 
all I am suffering, and to the physical inability 1 labor under of 
earning my bread.” 

“Yes,” answered Sir Robert, “ that is true, Errol is your debtor, 
indisputably. ” 

“1 might,” continued the other, “avenge myself on him. 1 
might cover with eternal disgrace the wretch who did his utmost to 
send me oUt of the world, and has to-day added insult to injury. But 
i hesitate. He is your eon, and you have been, Sir Robert, owing 


UJTDER WHICH KIXG? 


193 


to the net-work of circumstances, my ffood friend. 1 could not strike 
at him without wounding you, and that would be a course most ab- 
horrent to me.” 

Sir Robert listened attentively, then he asked, “ Is that the gist of 
what you wish to say, Planny?” 

” No. I am sorry to say not all. 1 gave some post-obits in the 
days when 1 imagined myself to be your son, and, it appears, have 
laid myself open to an action for fraud, which, indeed, is imminent, 
and w’hich 1 can not defend except under the alias Marmyon,” 

‘‘ And that is the sum and substance of your - communication to 
me this morning?” 

Plantagenet bowed, rather stiffly perhaps. 

‘‘ Did you employ a threat to Errol?” 

‘‘ 1 told him 1 had come to demand compensation. So 1 have. It 
is due to me.” 

Sir Robert bit his lip. “ Can you trust me, Planny?” he in- 
quired, with the air of a man who "had made up his mind conclu- 
sively, if hurriedly. 

” Most emphatically, yes.” 

” Then give me the name of the man who holds your post-obit 
bonds.” 

Plantagenet wrote down Mr. Blaydon’s name and addiess, adding 
that a summons had been already taken out, and that it might be 
served at any moment. Hence his visit. 

Sir Robert look note of this, flung down his pen, wheeled round 
his chair to the fire, and remarked, cheerily, “ Well, if that’s all the 
business of the^day, Planny, suppose we have a quiet chat?” 

“ With pleasure,” replied the young man, ” provided 1 have your 
assurance that these two subjects on which 1 have ventured to in- 
trude shall have your and Errol’s immediate consideration.” 

‘‘ 1 have said so,” answered the baronet, ‘‘ and both, 1 pledge you, 
shall be settled, 1 hope— er— ah— to your entire satisfaction. But 
don’t talk, if you please, about intrusion. This is your home, re- 
member— as it always was. And 1 am — er — ah — your foster-father 
you my adopted son.” 

Plantagenet’s voice trembled exceedingly as he replied, “I was 
afraid of this. 1 was afraid you would overwhelm me with favors. 
No. 1 adhere to my conviction that I can not make this my home. 
My presence would hardly be acceptable to Lady Marmyon, while 
to your son Errol it would be detestable. In his eyes 1 am Hodge, 
and he in mine — pardon the simile — is Cain.” 

Sir Robert held up his hands in deprecation, but something must 
have distracted his attention, for he turned his head quickly over 
his shoulder. There was, in fact, a perceptible rustle of some sort 
of silk or cloth, and in a trice Lady Marmjmn entered, and paused 
abruptly, elevating her superb eyebrows by no means wdth an ex- 
pression of extreme gratification at the spectacle of her cast-off and 
apocryphal son. 

” Oh,” said she, directing a glance at Plantagenet, ” so you are 
here? And how do you do? 1 hope you are better than you were.” 

Language cannot .indicate adequately the cool, cutting indifference 
of this speech. She did not call him Hodge, but her tone no less 
than her set commonplaces were intended to convey the notion that 
T 


194 UlfBER WHICH KING? 

lie was Hodge, and between himself and her ladyship was a bound- 
less gulf. 

But her husband did not like this one little bit. ‘‘ Poor fellow/’ 
he replied, decisively, before Plantagenet, who had risen, but didn’t 
ofter his hand, Lad}’^ Marmyon having made no such motion toward 
him, “he is still on the sick-list. 1 want him to stop here and 
recruit.” 

Lady Marmj’-on flushed and hither lip. “1 thought,” she an- 
swered, again addressing Plantagenet, “ that you had something to 
do— some employment of some sort which tied you to London?” 

Again Plantagenet was about to utter, but again Sir Robert antici- 
pated him with “ Certainly not. Nothing of the kind. Planny 
is unfit for work, and for play too, 1 much fear. He wants change 
sadly, and there is no such restoration as one’s native air. What do 
you say, Planny?” 

Plantagenet gazed with quiet dignity at the woman he had kissed 
as molher, tried to love as mother, and obeyed as mother. The look 
was sorrowful rather than angry, and a forced smile curled round 
his lips as he said, firmly, “ 1 return to town by the next train.” 

Then my lady caught just a glimpse of her lord's features, which 
exhibited every sign of chagrin if not of anger, and it was perhaps 
the dislike of the impending storm that caused her to add, “But 
vou will surely stop to luncheon? Your old friends, Mrs. and Ida 
J'raukalmoign, are on a visit to Lord Sevenoaks and we expect the 
whole party over in about an hour.” 

“ Thank you — thank your ladyship, 1 mean — 1 must return to 
London.” 

“ But,” Sir Robert again interposed, “ 1 think, my dear, you have 
made a mistake in the day. The Frankalmoigns are not due to 
luncheon until to-morrow. You had better change 3 mur mind, 
Planny. Do so to oblige me.” 

“ 1 wmuld do a good deal to oblige Sir Robert Marmyon, if it lay 
in my power, but not that.” 

“ As jmu will.” rejoined the baronet, piqued at what he regarded 
as obstinate pride. 

“ Then,” smiled my lady, who had got her own way in spite of 
her husband, “1 must say good-by, ” and she ofi;ered Plantagenet 
the tips of two fingers. 

“And 1 too,” rejoined Plantagenet, turning to Sir Robert, and 
adding, as Lady Marmyon retired, with for him rapid emphasis, 
“ believe me, my one desire is to do the right thing.” 

“Yes, 3 ^es,” was the half-petulant rejoinder, “only it happens 
that you do the very reverse, liow'ever, that is your affair, not 
mine. You persist in terming yours a false position. There is noth- 
ing false about it, except w’hat you choose to make false. You are 
not my son, but 1 have every right to adopt you as such, it you 
choose to be adopted. It is you wlio insist on enacement, not — ” 

Plantagenet laughed bitterly, “Yes, I, and Mr. Errol Marmyon, 
and every member of the family, except the head. No; that can not 
be. 1 must work in some capacity or other, w^hen 1 am well enough, 
if ever 1 should be fit for any sort of exertion.” 

And so with the last word on his lips, he left a card with his Brixton 
address, and walked away from his old home, dejected and crushed. 


UOTER WHICH KITO? 195 

At the lodge gates he found himself waylaid— by his mother. 
Martha’s face to him beamed more luminously than ever; and her 
presence, which in the days of his grandeur he had been able to 
tolerate, was now positively repulsive. 

“ My bo-oy,” she whined, “ when I reflects on the wrong done 
you by my h’idotic confession 1 could a’most go and drownd my- 
self. If 1 hadn’t been mad with that there Errol, an<l busting with 
a desire for vengeance, 1 don’t think wild ’osses would have dragged 
the words out of my lips. You do look bad, and no wonder 1 Fret- 
tin’, 1 be bound?” 

Plantagenet flung at her a glance of disgust. ‘‘There, there,” 
he muttered, ‘‘ that will do. You and 1, my good woman, never 
can be mother and son. Y'ou’ve done me damage enough; not, 
however, by splitting — you ought to have split before — but by tak- 
ing me out of my proper sphere. Come, be good enough to release 
me.” She had clutched the arm that was pow^erless, (he arm in the 
sling. ” I must catch my train. Do you hear w^hat 1 say?” 

‘‘ In a moment,” she responded. ‘‘ Tell me, is Sir Eoberl going 
to do the handsome?” 

‘‘ Eh?” almost shouted her big son. ‘‘ What’s that to you, Mrs. 
Hodge? Ihat is my affair. But if you suppose 1 have come here 
to beg, you are in error. 1 never descend to beggary. If 1 have a 
right 1 — ” 

” But you have no rights,” she whimpered, pitifully. 

“Indeed!” 

“ None. And that’s what made me determined to meet you when 
1 heard you was gone up to the Court. Here, I’ve got a bit .^aved, 
and you may as well have it now as later on. ’Tain’t a lof, but 
'twill help at a pinch,” putting her hand in her pocket. 

“ What do you mean?” cried Plantagenet, shaking her off indig- 
nantly. “ You don’t suppose, woman, do you, that 1 would take 
your money V 

She held out a leathern pocket-book filled with bank-notes, but 
he spurned it with anger, turned on his heel, and left her without a 
word. 

She had met him about forty yards or so below the lodge gates 
tow'ard the village. A bend of the road, with overhanging trees, 
concealed the entrance to the park from the vulgar gaze of the vil- 
lage-green, and as Plantagenet took this turn he was out ot'sight in 
litile more than halt a minute. 

She had not expected such treatment. It was an impulse of the 
mother’s heart, with its inscrutable, undying affection, that induced 
her to make an effort to conquer his obvious aversion. Thought 
she: “ He does not realize how deeply 1 love him. 1 will force him 
to understand this by giving him all 1 have to give. That will 
scften his heart toward me.” Alas! however, the poor woman 
omitted from her calculation the element of superbit}’’ wdiich had 
been engendered in her son’s breast by long training. She did not 
comprehend the artificial distance which her own act of deception 
had placed between them, still less that she, the mother who bore 
him, who had stealthily watched him from a distance like the timid 
Hebrew the infant Moses, was an object of loathing to her own 
flesh and blood. True, she was soon enough made aware of the 


196 UNDER WHICH KING? 

differentiation which divided them, nevertheless she cherished the 
notion that blood would prove thicker than water, and that when 
he ^^rasped the wealth of affection she entertained for him he could 
but requite it, though mayhap in a patronizing way. 

A short five minutes uisillusioued her. The man pushed her from 
him, and flung back her sacrificial offering in her lace. He saw in 
her nothing more than a coarse, red-faced, bloated female, whose 
intrusive generosity appeared in the light of an impertinence. And 
so he cut it short, and virtually bade her keep her gifts to herself, 
and abandon all claim on him. 

Such a blow to a woman in a dise^ised condition of body — and 
Martha was alcoholized so as to be on the verge of corruption — 
descended with crushing force. Her hypertrophied frame reeled 
and staggered. Her overcharged arteries sent the thickened blood 
in a volume to the heart, her head whizzed, her ej- es flashed fire, and 
with a groan she fell prone in the ditch by the roadside in an apo- 
plectic fit. 

The woman who kept the lodge -was an ancient retainer, whose 
seose of hearing had departed long years ago. The thud of the 
heavy body falling on the grass to her ear was inaudible. So there 
Martha lay, helpless, head downward in the ditch, asphyxiated, the 
life-blood oozing from her mouth. 

For perhaps ten long minutes — a sufficient time to sever the thread 
of existence— not longer, then a brisk toot came plodding along the 
road, and a sonorous voice trolled aloud, “ Ochone, widow Ma- 
chree,” as its owner turned the corner of the road and came upon 
the scene of horror. “ Bedad, thin,'’ muttered Mike Conolly, as he 
stole up to what at first glance appeared to be a huge bundle of 
clothes pitched into the ditch, “ some lucky devil's gone and mur- 
thered the ould baste for her money, sure! Arrah, arrah!' H’wat 
a pitee now 1 hadn’t a hand in’t? Hwish, ould woman,” shaking 
her vehemently, ” did they cut yer throat, now, or, be the holy hill 
of Tara, how did they finish ye; Sorra a stick in the gizzard have 
ye got about ye! Mayhap ’twas a tit afther all — a lashin’ too much 
of the dthrink, and a toight pair of stays, sure! Annyhow, it’s 
dead as a door-nail y’are, and — and— h’wat the blazes is this 
nowv” 

His hand had lighted upon the purse of notes. 

With greedy eye and trembling hand the Irishman counted the 
contents. ‘^Won hundert,” he hissed, sotto wee; ” and fifteen, by 
the holy Moses; and twinty more’s eighty, no, sivinty, as Oi’m a 
sinner; and foive is sivinty-foive. Wicl a small fortin loike this it’s 
mesilf 'ud be a dale safer somevvhere’s ilse. To think now of that 
biirr’l of a crayture ownin' this lot. Bedad, thin, she may’ve got it 
from her son, the big telly wid the broken arm. But that’s naythur 
here nor there. Oi’d hetther be rayplacin’ ye, mother darlint, in 
the ditch, sure, where Oi found ye, and then, avick, Oi’ll be off to 
the Wist, to the land of the fray. Tlie cloimit of Marmyon, sure, 
moight be a troitie warrum. Good-bye, t’ye, mother, and luck to 
yer sowl!” 

Wherewith he laid Martha in the ditch, stole carefully over the 
opposite fence, and dodged behind the hedge. The road was lonely, 
and he met no one tor at least a mile, while long before that was 


triq-DER WHICH KiKa? 197 

traversed he had contrived to tie up his face, as though he were 
suffering from toothache and to stain his naturally ruddy features 
with tobacco- juice. It would have been difficult for an unobservant 
i-ustic to identify him after this metamorphosis— except by his 
tongue. 

A man of extraordinary perception and immense versatility, Mike 
Conolly resolved to work as little as possible. He had a few shillings 
in his pocket, but he would not avail himself of the line, on the 
contrary he selected by-ways where he could, guiding himself by 
tbe sign-posts, and described the best part of a circle, taking a very 
wide radius, so as to keep clear of the metropolitan police, of whom 
for reasons of his own be stood in considerable dread. He made in 
the first instance for AYesterham, and then for Redhill and Dorking. ' 
At this point he ventured to contract his circle, following the road 
to Epsom. He had walked steadily for twelve hours, and it was 
pitch dark; so he willingly complied with the request of a drunken 
laborer to see him home, and in return for this service was granted 
shelter. In the morning he resumed his march, and got as tar as 
Kingston, where he put on a bold front, and purchased a daily 
paper. There, to his infinite relief, was, in the provincial news, a 
three-line notice of the sudden death of a landlady in Kent, but no 
mention of robbery. Reassured in a measure, yet suspecting that 
the money would be missed, he purchased a new suit of clothes ‘ 
with poor Martha’s one five-pound note, shaved off every vestige of 
hair on his face, and took the train to Liverpool. A liner was on 
the eve of starling, and he managed to secure a berth on board her. 
He need not have been so apprehensive, so stealthy, for in his case 
the proverb “ The wicked fieeth when no man pursueth ” was veri- 
fied. But he could not shake oft the horrible thought that the de- 
tectives were after him; hence, as soon as he landed on American 
soil, he lost not a moment in making tracks for the Bouth. He had 
compatriots and congenem wherever there was an Irish colony, and 
among them he fancied himself safe — as indeed he was. 

To return to that miserable scene, close to the pioud gates of 
Marmyon Court, where the woman that influenced its fortunes so 
largely lay still warm, but forever speechless. It was but a few 
moments after Conolly had made good his escape when a carriage 
containing Mrs. Frankalmoign, Miss Ida, and two noble ladies 
drove up from the opposite direction— e.e., the village green. The 
hideous spectacle at once caused the coachman to reign up, and two 
out of the four ladies, including Miss Ida, to drop off in a faint. 
Their advent, of course, had the effect of alarminng both the Court 
and the village. What remained of Martha Hodge was borne to her 
old and evil home. They sent post-haste for a doctor— a precau- 
tion rigorously observed when it is too late. Then Belinda pre- 
served the unities by an attack of hysterics — albeit between her and 
her mother no love was lost — and for once the doors of the Marmyon 
Arms were closed, and the population perforce had to go to bed 
sober. * 

The Court was, or affected to be, upset. Lady Marmyon, with 
upturned eye, vowed that Martha had invoked upon herself the 
wrath of high Heaven, while Sir Robert remarked to Mrs. Frankal- 
moign, with his regrets tor such an untoward occurrence within the 


198 UNDER WHICH KING? 

limits of his demesne, that “ It was— er— all— a tragedy in low life, 
whereunto Mrs. Frankalmoign sighed a Id Siddons, and gently 
pushed toiward her glass for another bumper of champagne. As 
for Miss Ida, after the shock was over, her horror melted into anger, 
and she vowed that the ghastly, hideous thing would haunt her for 
months. 

At this juncture, however, an ugly problem protruded itself. 
Ought Plant agenet to be at once informed of what had occurred? 
And if so, how would he act? 

Both these queries sorely puzzled the baronet. However, after 
some reflection, he retired to the recesses of the library and wrote 
as follows: 

“My deak PiiANNY. — 1 meant to have deterred my epistle on 
your affairs until to-morrow, though 1 maj'^ tell you that 1 have al- 
ready wired my solicitors to redeem the post-obit bonds bearing your 
name which Sir. Blaydon holds. I am compelled, however, to 
avoid delay for a very painful reason. 'Ihe poor woman who, 1 
suppose 1 may assume, was your mother— Martha Hodge — dropped 
down in an apoplectic fit, and was discovered by our friends the 
Fiankalmoigns lying prone by the roadside; in fact, if you will 
pardon the abruptness, beyond the power of human aid. 1 need 
* not apologize tor thus breaking this intelligence to 3 ^ 011 , because, to 
be perfectly frank, your relations with the deceased were never, 
from the day after your birth, those of mother and son. 1 leave it 
to you whether you choose to take any steps with reference to her 
small property; 1 conclude she had saved money, though probably 
it tie. But 1 may suggest that her daughter has perhaps, under the 
circumstances, the first claim’ on whatever she may have left in the 
way of money, and, if it is your wish, the girl may succeed her 
mother at the public-house. There is, however, one aspect of this 
miserable business to which you will have to award your fullest 
consideration. It is briefly this: Poor Martha Hodge never made 
an affidavit of 3 ^our identity. True, she deposed certain data to me, 
and 1 considered them verifiable. i3ut I am bound to add that in a 
court of law you might be held to be my son. The position, there- 
fore, is more than ever complicated, and 1 should wish it naturally 
to be cleared up finally and satisfactorily. 1 may sa 3 % therefore, 
that in the event of your deciding to carry out your intention, as 
previously stated, of abandoning all claim in favor of the man 
whom 1 am compelled to believe to be the son of my body lawfully 
begotten, 1 in turn am also prepared to secure you an annuity suit- 
able to a gentleman- let me say, if you please, to my foster-son. 
And now, dear Plauny, 1 need add no more than that 1 am, as ever, 
“ Yours most affectionately, 

“ Robert M arm yon. 

“ R. B. V. P.” 

This letter startled Plantagenet. But be was much the reverse of 
sentimental, except where Ida Frankalmoign w^as concerned, and it 
never once occurred to his mind that his mother’s sudden death 
might be l^id at his door. He sat down, therefore, and dashed off 
a reply with the sort of directness that was his wont. It may be 


ijKDi:R •VTHICH KIN-Q? 199 

■worth while to contrast this missive with the diplomatic document 
which had evoked it. 

** Deah Sm Robert, — Thanks much for your courtesy nncl kind- 
ness. I will not afteot to be plunged in grief on behalf of the 
woman -who played you false and pushed me, into a position where 
I was necessarily out of place. 1 shall not touch her little property 
or meddle at all. Let her daughter have it. It is her right. 
jN either have 1 the least notion of taking a mean advantage of the 
accident of the poor woman having neglected to swear an affidavit. 
On the contrar)% 1 am, as I have already said, anxious to insure tha 
rightful heir his reversion. Your kindness in taking up the post- 
obit I much appreciate, and if, as I understand, yoti propose to 
secure me the annuity by way of compensation for Errol’s crime 
against me, 1 must request that this be to the detriment of the 
wrong-doer, and not of the heir. 1 remain, dear Sir Robert, 

“ Yours obediently, 

“ Plant AQENET.” 

“ Er — ah!” gasped Sir Robert, as he perused this hastily. ” Poor 
boy! He cannot bring himself to write the odious ‘Hodge.' No 
wonder! no wonder! Poor, poor Plannyl What would this world 
be without wealth and honor? Upon my word 1 can’t conceive. 
One would not be so much crushed and trampled on as suffocated 
and strangled. How the fellows w’ho’ve got nothing exist— that sur- 
passes m}' limited comprehension. Bah! They don’t exist. They 
court labor, and drink, and sleep simply pt'wr passer U tempSy till the 
friendly old man with the scythe and the hour-glass comes to set 
them free. Poor, poor Plannyl If 1 were in his shoes! Well, by 
Jove, it’s lucky I’m not. I’m afraid 1 should fight like a Beng^ 
tiger for a heritage which 1 knew was not mine by right divine. Y“es, 
1 haven’t the backbone, the sense of rectitude of Planny. Perhaps 
that is because I’m made of different stuff. Anyhow, the poor fel- 
low has so much positive good in his composition that 1 must, as a 
matter of obligation, break his terrible fall for him. 1 ought to al- 
low him a thousand a year, but really in these hard times, and with 
all my outgoings, 1— er— ah — 1 don’t see my way to that. B ’m, 1 
wonder whether five hundred would satisfy him? It’s a large sum. 
Many a curate would be more than happy with half the amount. 
Still, Planny has been educated in expensive ideas. 1 have taught 
him, 1 fear, to be extravagant. Suppose, now, 1 was to say six hun- 
dred? That nobody could call mean. It’s fifty pounds a month— a 
respectable allowance for a quiet bachelor. Yes; I’ll spare him six 
hundred; and, after all, when once the racket of this tour with St. 
Vincent is over, that terrible infliction, my son Robert, need not cost 
much. 1 wish to goodness— however, it’s no use wishing! We all 
have our crosses, so Oiphrey tells us, and mine has been constructed 
on a colossal scale.” 

That is rather a long soliloquy, but it shall be recorded as an evi- 
dence of Sir Robert’s mental state. He had worshiped his idols, rank 
and money, so long and so fervently that every consideration seemed 
to center round them. Whatever did not tend to bolster up his pride 
be regarded with secret aversion. Now, it happened that the man 


200 


TJN-DTIK WHICH KTHG? 

whom he could but own as first-born wounded that ssme Inordinate 
pride ot his, and so in his inmost heart he half wished him at the 
bottom ot the Atlantic. 


CHAPTER XXVlll. 

MORE REYELATIONS, 

Sir Rorert Marmyon had promised to care for Polly Williams 
during Robertas absence, and when he gave the piomise be fully 
meant to be as good as his word. Perhaps he thought he had done 
so by presenting her with a sovereign, and directing his bailiff to 
administer a caution to Shepherd Williams to keep an eye on his 
daughter or it might be worse for him. Beyond this, however, he 
did nothing. He was not even aware whether she was at home or 
not, having in fact dismissed the girl from his recollection. 

As he was not altogether, except in respect ot cutting down his 
laborers’ wages on his huge home-farm, hard-hearted, it was per- 
haps as well for his peace of mind that he omitted to witness the 
change that came over the fairest flower of humbler Marmyon, of the 
Marmyon of workers. Polly’s roses faded, the luster departed from 
her eye, and the merry ring from her voice. Everybody remarked it, 
including Mr. Orphrey, who tried to proffer a useless rather than a 
hollow sympathy. At the Court alone the great people were in 
blank ignorance ot all that appertained to one so utterly insignifi- 
cant. They neither knew nor cared. 

When in the heyday ot middle life Martha Hodge passed hence so 
tragically and unexpectedly, Belinda was, as may be surmised, 
dumfounded. The suddenness of the blow seemed to have de- 
prived the buxom young woman of the power of speech and mo- 
tion, At that crisis Polly hastened to the aid of her friend, and 
perhaps found a small solace for her own wounded spirit in sharing 
another’s grief. 

A death of any kind, and particularly a sudden death, brings in ils 
train a host of novel responsibilities tor the survivors, and though 
Miss Belinda at another time might have been as capable as any ot 
her sex, being a resolute, virile, voluble young woman, of tackling 
those dififculties, in her stunned condition she was glad to lean for 
advice and support on feebler and more maidenly Polly Williams, 

After it was all over, the solemn funeral, tlie terrible ordeal of 
next Sunday’s sermon, with its reference to the appropriate suffrage 
in the Anglican litany, and the not very flattering moral evolved 
from the sudden departure of an erring sheep, Belinda tried to settle 
down. The house was hers for the present^ and she lost no lime in 
petitioning for the transfer of the license— a request which, to the 
chagrin of more than one retainer at the Court, was granted prompt- 
ly, Sir Robert accurately divining that if Miss Belinda was cut adrift 
she would land herself at once on Plgntagenet, a humiliating and 
costly contingency he was willing enough to spare his adopted^ son. 

It was ft Sunday morning. Errol, w ho for reasons ot his own not 
very diflScult to surmise had begun to pay court to his father, had 
actually condescended tooccupy aseat in the family pew and was re- 
turning home arm-in-arm with^the baronet. It happened, too, that 


UKDEK wmOH KIKG? SOI 

Polly Williams, who had pretermitted the privilege of listening to 
Mr, Orphrey, had strolled forth alone — solitude was her greatest lux- 
ury just now, as it is lor the most part to love-lorn maidens — and 
espying a few early primroses through a gap in the park palings, 
tripped through the lodge gates unobserved, wended her way be- 
neath the trees that overhung the fence, and was in the act of pur- 
loining her harmless prize— the first little rose of spring— when the 
“ er — ah” of Sir Kobert grated on her ear, and as she peeped through 
the high palings she espied that potentate leaning heavily on Errol, i 

” I "don’t quite make out— er — ah — what is the— er — ah — matter — 
matter with my side. Whether it’s heart, or indigestion, or a symp- 
tom of angina pectoris. The sensation is — er — ah— most distressing. 
Er — ah, the pain shoots through me, and it is followed by a sort of 
breathlessness. Stand still a minute, will you, Errol, I feel very 
odd.” 

‘‘ Won’t you get as far as the lodge? You can sit down and rest 
there a minute,” suggested Errol, diffidently. 

‘‘Er — ah — no; I’ll lean against the palings. It’s nothing — noth- 
ing. 1 shall be all right in a minute. Church, 1 suppose! Sitting 
too long in one position. That dear fellow, Orphrey, considers pro- 
lixity to be a form of piety. Ugh! there it is again!” 

Errol stood still in silence some three or four minutes, noting 
that his father seemed pale and tremulous. By degrees, however, 
the spasmodic pains ceased, but the baronet still leaned heavily on 
his arm with his back resting on the park palings. 

“ Are you better, fathei?” 

‘‘ Er— ah — yes. I’m coming round by degrees. Don’t attempt 
to move just yet; it would cause a return of the detestable sensations. 
By the bye, you were talking just now about Robert*?” 

Polly, who had crouched down behind the palings to escape ob- 
servation — tor Sir Robert was notoriously virulent against every 
kind of trespass, whether it chanced to be for game or primroses — 
pricked up her ears at the mention of the word Robert, and was at 
once all attention. 

‘‘ 1 was remarking,” responded Errol, ” that Robert, although 
naturally clever and all that sort of thing, is a hopeless vulgarian. 
Possibly Horace St. Vincent may succeed in rubbing off a few of 
the awful angles that so totally disfigure the man, and in curing 
some of his insane theories; but after all has been done what is the 
quotient? — why, a fellow who juggles with his knife at dinner in a 
way to make one’s blood run cold, and gets helplessly drunk after- 
ward.” 

Polly drew her breath and gave a big gasp. This was new. 

“ Er— ah— yes, ” sighed Sir Robeit. “’The fejlow’s manners 
would disgrace a pig, and he certainly imbibed too freely at the 
Grand Hotel, as 1 explained before.” 

Again Polly gasped, and a tear fell on the primroses. 

” Besides,’’ continued Errol, ‘‘ how in the name of common-sense 
will a cub of that sort comport himself in a drawing-room? He will 
pass, no doubt, in a Yankee drinking-bar, or perhaps at a German 
table d'hoto, where the piggery is about,on a par with his own; but 
here— here in the county of Kent, what will people say— and by 
George, loo, what will they think?” 


20 % UNDER WHICH KINCt? 

Sir Robert shuddered from head to toot 

“ Another spasm?” inquired Errol, with well- feigned sympathy. 

“ Er — ah — no. I'm coming round rapidly. As regards Robert, 
you are right One cannot but anticipate with apprehension his ar- 
rival on this scene.” 

“ 1 do,” rejoined Errol, with marked emphasis. ” I don’t relish 
being the laughiog-stock of halt a county. But you would persist 
in recognizing the man, and you have, father, by your own act and 
deed, saddled yourself with a white elephant” 

‘‘ What could 1 do?” whined the baronet, peevishly. 

“ Do!” echoed his son, scorutully, ” why, give him a sum down, 
in consideration of his renunciation of his rights, it you can call a 
claim like his a right. He was red-hot to emigrate and marry that 
girl— what’s her name? He should have been humored.” 

“Yes,” replied the other, dubiously. ” But that was not feasible. 
He could not have been bought out except at a fabulous sacrifice — 
at least, had he taken lesser terms, he could have revived his claim 
at my decease on the plea of compulsion— hence that plan was, in 
essence, abortive. No. It is worse than useless regretting the past. 
1 have acted for the best, and if 1 am disgraced 1 am disgraced.” 

The color tingled in Polly’s cheeks. The idea of her Robert— her 
noble-hearted Robert — being a disgrace! 

“ Perhaps,” suggested Errol, with almost sanctimonious meek- 
ness, ” the wind may be tempered to the shorn lamb. It is some- 
times, you know.” 

” Eh, what?” 

** 1 mean— perhaps the man may drown himself, or get shot, or 
smashed in collision, or anything of the sort! A tour round the 
world involves certain positive risks, 1 am glad to say.” 

Sir Robert shrugged his shoulders. ‘‘My dear Errol.” he said, 
solemnly, “believe me, the Gordian knot of one’s difficulties is 
never cut in that w^ay. You might tie a ten-pounder round the 
neck of a fellow like that, and throw him overboard in mid-ocean. 
He’d turn up, bless you, like a cork!” 

Errol laughed. “ We won’t be in a hurry, father,” he rejoined, 
“ to anticipate the very worst. 1 should like to have a ‘ pony ’ with 
you on the chance of his reappearing in the flesh?” 

“ Er— ah!” said Sir Robert, testily. “ This is Sunda}^ We have 
just returned from church, and the conversation seems to be taking 
a turn that I cannot approve. Give me a hoist, if you please; 1 will 
try and crawi home with the aid of your arm — and as regards Rob- 
ert, 1 have done my duty by him as a father, and 1 shall continue to 
do so, whatever may be the sacrifice of personal inclination 1 have 
to make. Now!” 

The palings creaked, as their lord pushed himself from them and 
resumed the perpendicular. Then Polly heard the retreating steps 
of father and son ; and as they slowdy proceeded up the avenue, she 
crept from her hiding-place, with her primroses, her tears, and her 
scarlet cheeks, and walked as fast as her feet could carry her to the 
Marmyon Arms, in search of comfort and consolation. 

“ Belinda!” she shrilled, with flashing eyes, interrupting by the 
bye, that young person in the middle of her Sabbath repast— a very 
solemn season. 


UNDER WHICH KIND? 203 

Miss Belinda deposited her knife and fork, ker mouth being filled 
to extreme repletion with boiled pork and pease-pudding, the handi- 
work of poor Mrs. Gipps, who was in waiting upon her in the double 
capacity of cool^ and parlor-maid. Then, with a glance of stupidity 
at her friend’s rather excited and hysterical expression, slie composed 
herself to attention reluctantly enough. 

Polly thereupon narrated her entire experience, ending with an 
outburst of pent-up emotion in the form of a torrent of tears. 

“To think,” she sobbed, “of my Robert being a disgrace, and 
of them two wishin’ he were dead!” 

“ It are ’ard-’earted, it are!” responded Miss Belinda, in a sort of 
dutiful tone, at the same time recovering the knife and fork and 
recommencing a vigorous attack on the pig and pulse, plus 
potatoes. 

“ Have amossel of pork?” she suggested, after a prolonged pause, 
interrupted only by Polly’s sobs. 

“I couldn’t do it, Belinda,” whimpered the poor girl, “but 
thankee all the same. JMo, 1 didn’t come for my dinner, I don’t 
want no dinner. Wbat I come about was lo ask you, Belinda, to 
give me a help if you can. 1 ain’t got many friends now.” 

Again the knife and fork dropped, but Miss Belinda’s face rather 
hardened. 

“ 1 don’t know what ’p’s you wants, Polly,” she remarked, with 
just a tinge of asperity in her not very musical voice. “But you 
knows as poor mother disappointed me. 1 did think as she’d saved 
a bit. and got it hid somewhere’s in the ’ouse, but — ” 

“ Belinda,” interrupted Polly, almost angrily, “you don’t go to 
think as I should beg of you for money?” 

“ What is it, then, Polly? Why don’t you say?” 

“Can’t )’Ou see as 1 be a’most choked with sobbin’? 1 arn’t 
looked on so since lie left, and it’s my belief that wicked h’old man, 
Sir Robert, went and made lie drunk to prevent his seeing me! 
That’s what 1 thinks, Belinda!’ 

“ ’Tain’t likely,” wms the curt rejoinder. “ Sir Robert’s dead 
against drink, except in a mod’rit way. He sent word to me that 
it the 'ouse were conducted respectable 1 might stop and welcome, 
but if so be as there was bad behavior 1 must turn out. But Sir 
Robert’s notions ain’t nothin’ to do with favors. What be the 
favor, Pol, as you wants done?” 

“ Yes,” gasped Polly, who was brimming over with indignation. 
“ Sir Robert’s nothing to do with it. What 1 w^ere a-going to ask 
you was, if you’d try to find out for me whereabouts in Ameriky my 
Robert is — acause I should dearly like to write him just one word of 
warnin.’ It’s my belief, Belinda, as they don’t mean him to come 
back!” 

“ But how can 1 find out any better nor you?” 

“ They won't tell me. They daren’t. But if you was to talk 
promiscuous to Mrs. Mazebrook she’d tell ’ee She knows, depend 
on’t.” 

“ Right you is, Polly. She does know, if any one does, but 
whether she’ll tell’s another thing. Howsoever I’ll make the trial 
to please you, as you’re that distressed, though if 1 was in your 
shoes 1 wouldn’t go to worrit myself. Robert’s the sort of lad to 


204 : XTNDER WHICH KIHG? 

take care of hisself, ancl Sir Robert’s correct when he says that it 'ud 
puzzle a man twice his size to put him out of the world. Come, 
Pol dear, don’t ’ee cry no more, and I’ll give you m}^ prorhise to 
ask Mrs. Mazebrook the question arter tea-time this very day. She 
be glad of company of a Sunday evenin’.” 

Miss Belinda was as good as her -word. She strolled up to the 
Court after dusk, invaded the housekeeper’s sanctum, and — fortu- 
nately for the success of her mission — found Madam Mazebrook in 
a very pliant and agreeable humor. The good woman had dined on 
duck, an edible — possibly owipg to the accompaniment of sage and 
onions — calculated to produce sweet content in the mind of a woman 
of hei sort. Moreover, as a sedative to that duck, she had furtively 
administered to herself about a pint of the best port in the cellar. 
Her condition, in short, was tranquil, and the smiles that wreathed 
her mouth seemed encouraging to Miss Belinda, who opened the 
ball with judicious irrelevance on the weather, bounded off to her 
own troubles, and ended by inquiries after the health at the Court. 

Mrs. Mazebrook rather appreciated any reference to the great of 
the earth. She considered herself to be a kind of Mohammed’s coffin, 
poised between the heaven of aristocracy and the earth of democracy 
— as an intermediary between superiors and inferiors. 

“ Thank you, my dear,” she responded, graciously, ” we are all 
well, very.” ” We,” by the bye, was her familiar way of linking 
herself with the people in the drawing-room. ” My lady,” she 
continued, “ w’ere upset, as is nat’ral, about your poor mother’s un- 
timely end, but she’ve rekivered by now.” 

‘‘ And the rest on ’em, Mrs. Mazebrook?” 

“Mr. Errol’s at ’ome, and of course, as you knows, his elder 
brother, ’Odge as used to was, is on his travels.” 

Belinda bowed, or rather nodded. “Robert,” she replied, 
“ always were a favorite of mine when he were my brother. Many 
and many’s the larrupping I’ve saved him as a boy, for mother 
couldn’t abear him, not bein’ her own, don’t you see, Mrs. Maze- 
brook? 1 do hope as he’s enjoyin’ of himself, poor chap, though he 
be a fish out of water.” 

“ Ahl” ejaculated Mrs. Mazebrook. “ That reminds me of Bum- 
mat. Just like a good girl, go to that there cupboard and open the 
third drawer. There be a letter there, bain’t there?” 

Belinda did as she was bid, and from the spot indicated extracted 
an envelope covered in the corner with some strange-looking stamps. 
She opened it in response to a gesture from Hester Mazebrook, and 
handed it to her without a vestige of curiosit)". 

The housekeeper pulled the candle toward her, essayed to read a 
line or so, and then flung it down, rather impatiently for her. 
“ There!” she exclaimed, “ blest if 1 hain’t tried to read that letter 
a half a dozen times. It were littering about on the floor of Mr. 
Errol’s bedroom, so 1 thought it only proper, Belinda, to keep it 
away from the servants’ eyes. TUe imperent curiosity of them 
maids surpasses all belief. Can you read the ’andwritin’, my dear?” 
throwing the letter across the table to her indifferently. 

“ Yes,” replied Belinda; “ 1 think, I’m sure 1 can. It's a letter 
to Mr. Errol, and the printed ’eadin’ is ‘ Burlbec’s Hotel, San Fran- 
cisco.* ” 


UKDER WHICH KIHG? ^>05 

** Then, my dear, read on, only don’t raise your voice; and if any- 
body should come in by accident slip it in your pocket. Now.” 

Belinda smiled. Clearly the Fates were most propitious. Then 
she lead, slowly and distinctly. 

” Dearest Errol, — 'Ihe ball is on the spot, and a single stroke 
will bole the red. By the best of dukes, in ihenalon of the ” King 
Lud,” 1 stumbled on our mutual friend, Dolopy. He lias come 
across on some first-class mining business down this way, and 1 was 
not sorry to chum with him, for youi affectionate brother proves to 
be more of a trial than L imagined he would be. En route he picked 
up with a monster parson — one of these padres who shine at St, 
Alban’s and in Margaret Street — and this old demon simply monop- 
olized him, to my very great delight; for Dolopy is splendid com- 
pany, and gentlemen fresh from the plow-tail hardly come under 
that category. Not to be prolix, we three— not the parson, Corpo (h 
BaccJio, no, not that — made tracks for ’Frisco sharp, and here wq 
are for some time; so you may safely write to the above address if 
you’ve anything to say. Now for the point: Dolopy, you must 
Know, has a mine in this region which is supposed to contain >>:oId. 
When 1 say it’s his 1 lie, or, rather, employ a fagon de parler. It’s 
the property of some two dozen rascals, each of whom has a claim 
on it. The mine, however, is not precisely the point, only what our 
logic coach used to call the inseparable accident of the point. It is, 
in fact, situated in the centre of a district which does conlain real 
mines in full work, and there seems to be some sort of feud betw’een 
the Irish and the Yankee miners. Your dear brother lakes a lively 
and personal interest in all labor questions, and it may be graiifying 
to you to know his bias on this occasion happened to be in favor of 
the Milesians, because the Yankees here have a pleasant and play- 
ful habit of settling all Irish problems with revolvers. For myself, 
I feel it to be more consonant with my role as a Bohemian and 
Sybarite to avoid thrusting anybody’s head into a fatal noose. But 
your dear brother does not require pressure. He is only too eager 
to court the retributive bullet. The real danger is lest, when the 
melee comes, and it is imminent— so much so that 1 keep as far as 
possible from the scene of action — the Yankees, who are preternat- 
urally just, and can contradistinguish a fool from a Knave, will 
spare an interfering Englishmari on account of his nationality. 
Dolopy thinks not, and is quite charmingly sanguine — forgive the 
pun; but time will show. 

” Tout awns, Horace. 

“ P.8. — I open my letter to add (hat your dear brother’s Irish 
friends have just been so very obliging as to earn a tribute of Yankee 
gratitude by blowing up a mine and killing a brace of American 
citizens, besides wounding a score or so more. It’s a poor heart 
that never rejoices.” 

** Well,” murmured Mrs. Mazebrook, “ that are a very pecooliar 
letter, and 1 don’t quite see what the gentleman as writes it, Mr. 
Horace Si. Vincent, 1 thinks, be a meanin’ of.” 

” But 1 do,” snapped Miss Belinda. ” 1 sees through the stone 
wall. There’s them, Missus Mazebrook, as don’t want our Robert 


206 TJNBER WHICH KIHG? 

to have his rights. You knows that as well as me. And they 
people — 1 want to mention no names — has sent the poor fellow to 
’Meriky to get rid of ’im. Kot as they'll finish 'im, not they. ^ They 
only puts ’im in the way of danger, just as 1 were a readin’ King 
David did to him as were the ’usband of Barthsheeber. That’s it, 
mum.” 

But Mrs. Mazebrook would listen to nothing of that sort The 
Court was in her eyes impeccable. 

” Miss Hodge,” she replied, severely, ” 1 must ask you to mind 
w'ho 3 ’ou’re a-speakin' to, and what you’re a-sayin’ of. You’re a 
hignerant girl as can’t understand a letter like that, and I’m sorry 1 
give it jmu to read, that 1 be.” 

” iSo bain’t 1,” retorted Miss Belinda, bouncing oat of the room.. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

TALKS— GOOD AND ANTI-GOOD. 

W E left Robert on board the ‘ ‘ King Lud,-’ ’ in close conference with 
Father L’lsle. That single-hearted priest had but one thought un- 
derlying every action and every word — the addition of sheep to the 
fold", or the safe guarding of those who had submitted to the guid- 
ance of the Church. Half apostle, half pastor, he lived a life as utterly 
apart troin that of ordinary bujdng and selling, marrying and giving 
in marriage mortals as though he were the denizen of anolner planet, 
it was this indifference to all except what he deemed the highest in- 
terests of humanity that attracted Robert toward him. At Marmyon 
he had listened to his eloquence, but when others shed tears his eyes 
were dry; when others hastened to gain an experience he held aloof; 
but he had drunk in very greedily the ethical portion of the preach- 
er’s discourse, more especially when it dealt with the gross in- 
equalities of life; and in his championship of the poor and denun- 
ciation of riches Robert recognized the true echoes of a Voice that 
uttered -some eighteen hundred odd years ago — a Voice that is heard 
now moie widely and distinctly than it was then. 

” And so,” said Father L’lsle, “ you have unexpectedly become 
the heir of a grand inheritance and of a high social position. Well, 
my friend, you of all men must be most keenl}^ cognizant of the 
immense leverage for good or evil money affords. You know by 
heart the sufferings of those who toil; you realize how largely they 
would be elevated by the addition to their lot of civilizing influ- 
ences; and in the future, so far as it is lawful to anticipate, you 
will have it in your power to benefit posilivel.y these humble men 
who bring to you, and for your sole beenfit, the labor of a life-time.” 

“Ye?,” rejoined Robert; “and it 1 live 1 shall treat them as 
brothers. 1 have shared their work, and ’tis but square they should 
share my cake.” 

Father L’lsle smiled at this homely simile. “ Yes,” he replied, 

that, so far, is a good resolve. But, my friend, the mere ‘ share 
and share ’ does not cover my meaning. If you w^ere to divide your 
heritage equally among wur men, whW do you suppose you would 
benefit? Kot the men, 1 tear, but the brewer and the distiller— a 


TJKDER WHICH KIHH? SO*? 

pretty pair of horse-leeches to absorb your precious substance! No; 
1 am, in a modified sense, a Christian Socialist, but not a Commun- 
ist. My desire is that the people should be less crushed in this world 
in order that they may be the less cramped in preparing for the 
next. 1 would have 5 ’’Ou give the people the amplest opportunities 
of earning more, as a matter of simple equity. 1 w^ould counsel you 
to sacrifice shoddy splendor and barbarous ostentation in order to 
do justly by those who work. But you would have to thiiiK of 
other considerations than those which are merely material. Man 
can not live by bread alone.” 

” If you mean,” observed Robert, ‘‘ to educate them and make 
gentlemen of them — why, 1 should say that would be a job over 
your head, and certainly over mine.” 

‘‘ 1 should like to see their brains expand,” rejoined Father L’lsle, 
” but especially their consciences.” 

“Ah,” ejaculated the j^oung man, “that’s not in my line! 1 
bain’t a parson, sir; I’m a laboring-man.” 

“ Who is being metamorphosed into a gentleman,” retorted the 
other. 

Robert shrugged his shoulders. “ That is the notion,” he said, 
“ but it won’t work. They begin by putting liquor to my lips, and 
cigars in my mouth, and smart clothes on my back. But all that 
won’t alter me— inside or outside, in mind or in manners. And 
what’s more, sir, 1 don’t want to be altered. I’m good enough for 
myself.” 

Father L’lsle looked at him earnestly. “ If 1 were to tell you,” 
said he, “ that we w^ere all capable of improvement, you would ad- 
mit the general rule, and consider yourself the exception. But you 
will pardon nay stating my firm conviction that you need an entire 
change, though not of the kind Sir Robert Marmyon desires for you. ” 

The young man looked stupid purposely, but he realized what 
the good father was aiming at. 

“ A change,” continued the clergyman, “ of such a character as 
to raise you, in spite of all your lack of culture and book-learning, 
far above the very highest aristocracy. You regard the social order 
into which you have been suddenly and surprisingly admitted with 
abhorrence, because of their selfish indifference to the great human 
substratum on whose lives they exist in luxury. That is only one, 
and the narrowest, view of this question. 1 blame them, not merely 
for their lack of the broad principle of equity, but because, having 
such opportunities, they misuse or neglect them. The best of 
them, with very few exceptions, bury their talent of wealth in a 
napkin; the less exemplary — that is to say, the average- spend 
their money on vice, pleasure, and in gambling. Their loftiest pur- 
suit is the butchery of game; their notion of manliness to harry a 
miserable fox, hare, or stag. They sustain, without an attempt at 
concealment, in barbaric splendor a city’s population of venial 
women, besides consigning tens of thousands of the hungry daugh- 
ters of the people to the livelihood of depravity. I’rue, they sup- 
port the Church as a political and social institution. But what a 
mockery for the Church to lean on the arm of men who are the 
open and acknowledged devotees of the devil! Aristocracy is be- 
coming yearly more and more impossible, because of its utter de- 


208 


UisDER WHICH KING? 


pravity. And it does not stop short at self-destruction; it drags the 
people after its cirariot through the mire of debauchery and immo- 
rality. It is to the aristocracy that we owe that gigantic curse, that 
practical antichrist of England, the race-course, with its myriad vile 
concomitants. The race-course has created an army of ruffians who 
exist on lies, trickery, and the lowest devices of gambling. But 1 
need say no more. Enough if you, young man — you who have 
bitterly earned your bread by honest sweat — should be warned in 
time not to descend to the level ol your social equals. You will do 
so without religion. With it you will rise superior to the tempta 
tions of an exalted and therefore a perilous position.” 

Bobert gazed across ihe ocean, the billows whereof cast their 
spray in his face— meditatively murmuring, half to himself, ‘‘ 1 
hope anyhow to hold my own, and follow^ m 3 ’ own light.” 

” Yes,” rejoined Father LTsle, quickly, ‘‘ it the light that is in 
you be a true guide — w’hich in reality is the very point at issue.” 

“That’s as may be,” rejoined Robert, sententiously. “I sup- 
pose your idea is that when 1 have the means 1 should back your 
Church.” 

“You utterly misapprehend me,” answered Father L’lsle; “1 
meant no such thing. 1 am not of the number of those who angle 
for rich or titled converts. (Granted that, 1 can not close my eyes to 
the fact that your influence in the future may be exercised for God 
or for His enemies. That thought has not evoked my words. 
When 1 establish a chain of communication between the suiil that is 
in me and that of another, 1 think only of the paramount interests 
of that individual soul with whom 1 am for the moment in commu- 
nication. It is enough, my 3 ’oung friend, even once in a man’s life, 
to have been the humble means of insuring the eternal happiness of 
one single item of the vast human family.” 

And he placed his broad hand tenderl}’^ on Robert’s shoulder, add- 
ing, quietly, as he took out his w atch, “ It is just noon. At noon 
daily, 1 repeat the angelic salutation in accordance w ith the ancient 
custom of the Church, and 1 add thereunto certain devotions of the 
rule by which 1 am bound. So 1 must retire to m}’ berth lor the 
nonce, 'rhink over my words. Think of them as the utterance of 
a friend.” 

“ Yes,” answered Robert, “ I will give them a thought. Not that 
1 can follow all you say, but 1 see this, that you don’t muddle up 
what’s right and wffiat’s wrong like some do.” 

And so he descended to the saloon to find his traveling compan- 
ions, St. Vincent and Dolopy, hard on at ecarie—vioi exact!}’' for 
love, it the small pile of coin at the side of each might be taken to 
serve as an index— in fact for mutual plunder. 

“ Well, my young friend,” remarked Horace St. Vincent, se- 
verely, “you seem rather fascinated b}'^ 3 ^ 0111 - parson? Given 3 ’ou 
the straight tip, eh? Pray, don’t let either of us interfere with your 
enjo 3 ’ment of clerical society, onl}’’ don’t inflict it on us. If you 
w'cre to plant that old party on me 1 should at once drop overboard. 
Better to be drowmed out and out than to be bored. Eh, IJol?” 

“ J don’t know,” observed Captain Dolopy. “ In my line of 
business it pevei pa 3 ’'s to miss a chance. There’s no saying but that 
the venerable priest might have a few pieces concealed about him. 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


209 

In that case 1 could accommodate him with some first-class invest- 
ments ot a decidedly speculative character. And by the bye, happy 
thought! I really want a live bishop to go on the board ot my "Vin- 
tage Manufacturing Company. He’s not a bishop, is he? No. Well, 
that don’t signify. Depend upon it, he pals with bishops when he’s 
at home. What do you say, Horace?” 

” 1 say,” retorted Horace, rather grumpily, ” that it’s all dog- 
fiend you’re talking. For mercy’s sake don’t bring that octopus of 
a man dowm on me! 1 should never shake him off. Bless you, 
Dol, don’t 1 know his cloth by rote? "Wasn’t 1 for three mortal 
3 ^ears at Oxford, in the swum of all the parsons in the place?” 

” It’s my opinion,” said Robert, with rural directness of speech, 
” that the gentleman don’t want the acquaintance of either of you.” 

‘‘ And does w^ant yours, Mr. Robert Marmyon? Well, let me con- 
gratulate him on his excellent taste.” 

Whereat— the words issuing from the sarcastic lips of Mr. Horace 
St. Vincent— both men laughed long and low, the more so because 
the object of their laughter, after flushing up to his temples with 
wrath, turned on his heel and w'ent aloft again. 

” Had him, Hoddy!” observed Dolopy, chuckling. 

“ Why, certainl.y. That speech of his was just a trifle too flam- 
boyant. The cheek of the cad!” 

” I’ll remember it,” said the other. 

The voyage wuis monotony itself to Robert. Had it not been for 
the accident of encountering Captain Dolopy, Horace St. Vincent 
might have tried to lay himself out to be in a certain sense chummy. 
As"it was, that gentleman, when he was not indulging in tete-d-tete 
talk with his friend — on w'hich occasions they both gave him to 
understand very clearly that he was de trop — elected to play courtier 
to certain pretty ladies with whom he had scraped an acquaintance. 
Robert thereupon, except at meals, had to content himself with his 
own thoughts in a general way, though occasionally he enjoyed the 
society of Father jj’Isle. At last, however, the dreary w^aste of 
waters was traversed, and he actually touched the soil of Columbia. 

His own wish w^as to see something of New York and the North- 
ern States, and he not only expressed it categorically to Horace St. 
Vincent, but even went so far as to hint that Sir Robert could not 
have intended him to follow his traveling companion like a school- 
boy or a slave. He met, however, with little else in return for his 
remonstrance than cool insolence of the dogged and deaf variety. 

“ We,” said Horace, with one of his nastiest sarcastic titters— 
” we, that is to say. Captain Dolopy and 1, happen to be going to 
Sac Francisco. You can accompany us or not as you choose.” 

Robert lool^ed the man full in his eyes and replied. 

Suppose 1 don’t choose?” 

‘‘ Well, my friend, you can of course consult your own tastes and 
convenience.” 

” Yes. Then, it you please, sir, be good enough to supply me 
with the necessary funds. Sir Robert— my father— has placed a 
large sura at your disposal for our mutual benefit, and — ” 

“ And he has done so that his son may travel with me. Don’t 
deceive yourself. That is the object ot your tour. Of course, if 
Mr. Harm} on declines to avail himself of my society, why then— 


210 UlTDER WHICH KIKO? 

simply, it can’t be helped. 1 am not disposed to forego my engage- 
ments to suit his caprices.” 

‘‘You refuse to supply me with the money of which you are 
trustee for my benefit?” 

‘‘Look here,” interposed Captain Dolopy, who had accidentally 
ovei heard the lattei pait of this verbal duel, ‘‘it’s no good your 
cutting up rough, Mr. Marmyon. My friend Horace here stands in 
a very delicate position with regard to your respected father, the 
more so because he is your mother’s, and of course also your, 
cousin. Sir Robert charged him with a mission —as your pal, the 
priest, would call it. He was to be your guide and philosopher, it 
not your friend; and the understanding was that you were to follow 
his lead. Eh? you shake your head. What was it then?” 

“ Sir Robert wished us to form plans together.” 

‘‘ That’s no answer— pardon me. Sir Robert really gave Horace 
carte-blanche — ah, I see you don’t catch my meaning— the fullest 
liberty of action. How Horace very naturally wishes to join me. 1 
must go to ’Frisco. That is clear as daylight, and 1 don’t quite per- 
ceive, that being so, why you should interpose any obstacle. It 
isn’t good-natured, and I’m not surprised that Horace sticks to his 
programme. Why shouldn’t he, pray?” 

Robert reflected a moment. ‘‘Very well,” he said, “1 will go 
with you, but 1 go under compulsion, and for- the matter of that 1 
should have imagined that you would have preferred my room to 
my company?” 

Horace laughed. He had allowed Captain Dolopy to speak for 
him. Now, however, he Cut in —sharp. 

‘‘ It’s no use humbugging, Mr. Marmyon,” he said. ‘‘ You have 
your ideas. 1 mine. Captain Dolopy his. We may agree to agree, 
or agree to difler. But, so far as you and 1 are concerned, don’t 
blunder. We are the Siamese twins for the present. 1 can’t shunt 
you without violating my pact with Sir Robert, who is a sharp man 
of business; nor can you give me the go-by, except at your own risk, 
and assuredly not with my connivance. Now, do you see my mean- 
ing?” 

‘‘ It’s an arrangement I don’t like,” retorted Robert, angrily. 
‘‘ Nor would 1 have assented to it if lhad foreseen how it was going 
to work.” 

‘‘Just so,” again interposed Captain Dolopy. *‘ Y'ou feel a diffi- 
culty in assimilating with us. Your ideas and ours move in differ- 
ent grooves. Your experiences have not been ours, neither are our 
tastes on a level with yours. All of which, sir, is rough on you— 
that 1 admit. But for 5 mur comfort 1 may tell you that in the part 
of the States to which we are about to journey, there are to be found 
a number of people who do share your ideas. They will welcome 
you at ’Frisco. They will provide you with society after your own 
heart, and you will not feel life hang heavily when once you are 
among them.” 

‘‘ I don't understand you.” 

“ To be perfectly plain, Mr. Marmyon, you, by habit and instinct, 
belong to t^he people. Wc, owing to the accident of birth and 
breeding, do not. It is our misfortune rather than our fault, but it 
has the effect, indisputably, of rendering men accustomed to club 


rKDEH WHICH KTHH? 5^11 

and drawing-room existence very tiresome companions to jmu. 
Don’t be oliended with my plain speaking. I am only stating 
facts.” 

‘‘I’m not offended,” replied Robert. ‘‘Quite the t’other way. 
You can’t be too straight with me. Yes, 1 know w^ell enough I’m 
not one of your sort and never can be. You’ve had your training, 
and it’s made you what you are. I’ve had mine, and I ought not to 
be ashamed of it. So— as you will, gentlemen. I’ll yield to your 
wishes.” 

‘I Like a good-hearted fellow, ” suggested Horace, though whether 
in jest or in earnest was by no means apparent from his tone, it 
might have been either. And so, after all, Robert did yield, and 
the notion of anybody’s company but theirs cheered him. He had 
begun to think about following the counsel of Father L’Isle, whose 
words sank deeper into the soul of his hearer than he himself sus- 
pected. That good man wished Robert a friendly farewell at Man- 
hattan, under the impression that he had labored in vain during the 
voyage across, and that Robert was still fat from the Kingdom of God. 
He little recked of the negative effect exercised upon an honest, 
simple mind by the cynical, unprincipled, callous chatter of two 
such utter Gallios and good-for-nothings as Dolopy and St. Vincent. 
In making the world and the things of the world ^pulsive they 
were unconsciously Father L’ Isle’s agents. They aid more than 
halt his work for hhn, and were preparing the plastic intelligence 
of an earnest though uninstrucled seeker after truth to grasp the 
eternal verity, that there is no real good save the good which is of 
God. Nevertheless when he started in their uncongenial society for 
Sun Francisco, Robert as yet had only half learned that truth. He 
had learned it in theory from Father L’Jsle’s charmed lips, and by 
the logic of negation from the lubricious conversation of cynical 
voluptuaries. He had yet to be taught it pi-actically in the school of 
experience, with all its accompanying bitterness and its revelation 
of the darker phases of human character. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

‘‘ rULCiUE.” 

If a man were to advertise his intention of walking from Charing 
Cross to Westminster, at any hour of the day or night, with a quar- 
ter of a million sterling in his pocket, he would — malgre the inex- 
haustible resources of civilization — run a certain risk, ratiier less, 
however, than that usuallv incurred by the heir of a huge unearned 
increment. Robert little recked of the amere pensee in the mind of 
his cheery co-traveler, Horace St. Vincent, or he would have turned 
his back on him and his congener. Captain Dolopy. 

As it was, his relations with that exemplary pair of scoundrels 
rather improved after the storm narrated in the previous chapter. 
They suddenly changed their manner, and instead of pushing him 
aside as an unmitigated and insupportable nuisance— as had been 
the case throughout the passage across— they laid themselves out to 
be agreeable. Everything was done to promote his comfort and 


212 UKDER "WHICH KT2s’"G? 

convenience. Dolopy, who knew the States by heart, displayed all 
the qualities of an intelligent cicerone, and Horace found abundant 
scope tor the play of that pleasant, when not personal, verbal caus- 
ticity which he regarded as his cliiefest accomplishment. Indeed, 
when, after slow stages, tliey actually arrived at San Francisco, the 
unsophisticated young man began to feel himself almost at home in 
their company, not realizing, as yet, their genius for acting a part — 
and a false one. 

“ The mine’” remarked Dolopy, as they were indulging in cigars 
after sunset under a cool veranda, “ lies about thirty miles odd to 
the south of a town called Jelfsville. Judge Potterei will meet us 
thereabouts, and then we can make tracks tor the place itself — Long 
Camp. It’s a sort of mining town, and the code in vogue is not that 
of Justinian or Napoleon, but of an eminent jurist 3^ou may have 
heard of, named Lynch.” 

Robert looked interested, 

“A lawj^er,” added Horace, “whose practice it was to hang a 
man first and try him afterward. That was a method which insured 
mathematically the condign punishment of the guilty.” 

“ What about the innocent?” inquired Robert. 

“Ah!” ejaculated Dolopy, shrugging his shoulders. “There 
you are. Y#i can’t have everything in this world, don’t you 
Know, Mr. Marmyon? In the mining districts we consider it quite 
enough to make sure that a criminal don’t get off.” 

“But,” urged Robert, with serious emphasis — he failed to grasp 
the fact that these fine gentlemen seldom or never said what they 
meant — “ the innocent, the innocent! Surely it is better that a hun- 
dred guilty men should escape than^that one innocent man should 
suffer?” 

“ Is that your view?” rejoined Horace, dryly. “ Well, then, to 
apply it. A handful of Egyptian rowdies murder an English doc- 
tor in the streets of Alexandria. Ergo — though I’m bound to say 
that was not the ostensible pretext, albeit I believe it to have been 
the real one — we pounded Alexandria to little bits.” 

“ Or again,” interposed Dolopy, “ during the Indian mutiny a lot 
of infernal Sepoys butchered our women and children at Cawnpore; 
so we set to work and butchered a lot of women and children at 
Agra and elsewhere, their husbands and fathers being our fast 
friends and as guiltless of the massacre a hundred leagues off as you 
or I are.” 

“Yes,” pleaded Robert, “but because nations lose their head 
when they’re aggravated, it don’t follow that judges ought to do 
likewise. A judge ought to be just. Ain’t that so?” 

“Theory, mere theory!” laughed Horace. “Come, now, my 
friend Robert Marmyon, let me pul a case which ^mu will be well able 
to appreciate the force of. Suppose Mr. Plantagenet Hodge had elect- 
ed, instead of caving in like a pitiful idiot, to contest your claim to 
be Sir Robert’s son and heir? Suppose the case had come into court, 
and .there had been — as is inevitable — some hardish swearing on 
either side? You imagine, doubtless, that the judge would have 
summed up in jmur favor, because there can be no moral doubt 
in the mind, of any sensible person that you are the man, and not 
Mr. Plantagenet, who is about as like Sir Robert or Lady Marmyon 


UT^-DEK WHICH KTXG? 213^ 

as Monmoutli resembles Macedon. But, my friend, if you tbink 
that, you err. The judge would have told the jury that Piantageuet 
was the man in possession, and that they were bound to presume 
that the man in possession was right, and the claimant wrong. 

“ Then,” exclaimed Robert, ‘‘ he’d be a rogue or a fool!” 

‘‘ You bet,” sounded a nasal voice at his elbow. 

‘* Judge Potterer!” cried Captain Dolopy, advancing to greet that 
functionary with open arms. 

A more injudicial-looking personage Robert thought it would be 
im.possible to conceive, Ilis visage was preternaturally long and 
thin, with no visible hair on it; his figure tall and slight; his trousers 
nearly up to his knees. He carJed no expression at all on his face 
save when his eye twinkled for less tban half a second. He was 
not melancholy; he was not jolly; he was not anything in particular 
except utterly indifferent. 

‘‘ That gentleman,” he remarked, ‘‘ is right— your British judges 
are not smart. Guess we could leach ’em the inside of a verdict. 
Let’s liquor.” 

Horace passed him the champagne. They stuck to that most 
costly of neclareous substances regardless of expense — perhaps to 
punish Sir Robert. 

‘‘ No,” said the judge. ‘‘ That wouldn’t take the skin oft a fly. 
Here, you nigger, an ej’^e-opener of pulque, all round.” 

” Yes, sare.” 

The eye-opener was produced, and handed round by the negresque 
Mercury in attendance. 

” What d’ye call it?” asked Horace, after a dubious sip, 

‘‘ Pulque,” cried Dolopy. ‘‘ It’s distilled from that noble succu- 
lent, the agave. Your health, judge.” 

‘‘1 drink to you, Britishers,” responded that limb of the law, 
flooring his modicum rapidly, an example followed byj^ll except 
Robert, who, having tasted the stuff, made a wry iace and. set it 
down on the table as unfit tor the human stomach. 

Judge Potterer winked— funnily, so Robert thought, considering 
the dignity attaching to his high office. 

Hi might well do so. Pulque is the most intoxicating fluid yet 
invented by diabolical art. It goes straight to the brain, and 
causes— not intoxication, but temporary msa"hity. 

The judge himself, having, by long practice, tanned his vitals to 
the consistency of prunella, was able to swallow this filth without 
peril of dementia: indeed, it had no effect on him further than to 
evolve a tear from the corner of his pea-sized eye. But it rapidly 
converted Dolopy and Horace St. Yincent into a pair of raging, roar- 
ing lunatics. They smashed the glasses and chairs, flung every- 
thing at everybody, and eventually had to be forcibly restrained and 
put to bed by a posse of stalwart negroes. 

‘‘ Wall,” said the judge to Robert, after this singular episode, 

” the Britishers have imbibed — some. It’s a fine evening. Shall 1 
show 5 mu, sir, the sights of San Francisco? 1 reckon you could put 
London and Paris in the center of our town, sir, and forget all 
about them.” 

Robert acquiescing, they strolled out together. 


’'■’^14 UNDER WHICH KING? 

“ I guess, sir,” commenced Judge Potterer, ” that you’venot been 
iu our country before?” 

‘‘ 1 haven’t,” replied Robert, ‘‘ but I’ve wished to for some time 
past.” 

” It’s a re — markably fine country, sir: a revelation to the mind 
of a Britisher, 1 reckon?” 

Robert nodded his approval of this sentiment. 

‘‘ Air you on business or pleasure, sir?” 

■ ” Not on business,” answered the other, carelessly. 

” Is that so? Then Captain Dolopy hasn’t brought you here to 
buy?” 

” I haven’t the money to buy anything in particular. 1 may have 
some day, it 1 live.” 

‘‘Just so, sir. Then 1 presume you’ve got what 1 may call a re — 
versionary interest? Perhaps now you’re a relation of Dolopy?” 

“No, no!” answered Robert, rather bluntly, tor he was rather 
disposed to resent this system of catechizing. ” Captain Dolopy’s 
a stranger to me. 1 only know him through the gentleman 1 am 
traveling with, Mr. St. Vincent.” 

” Is that .so? Wall, sir, and what’s your candid opinion of Cap- 
tain Dolopy?” 

” 1—1 don’t Know,” stammered Robert; ” 1 haven’t formed any 
opinion of him. He’s not my sort.” 

Judge Potterer paused, and looked him full in the face. 

“You’re a Britisher,” he said; “but you’ll excuse me, there’s 
the making of an American citizen in you. You don’t talk as if 
you were an almighty mountain above the rest of the world. But 
you don’t know much — yet.” 

To this philosophizing there was nothing to be said, so Robert, at 
all limes the reverse of a chatterbox, walked on in silence, stiming 
about him right and left. 

“ My name is Pot terci*— Judge Potterer.” 

“ So 1 supposed,” observed Robert. My companions were talk- 
ing about 5'ou and your gold-mine before you came.” 

“ And vvhat’s your name, sir?” 

Robert smiled as he replied, “ Marmyon — Robert Marmyon.” 

“ Is that so? And you have a re — versionary interest, 1 thinlf you 
said.” 

“ Oh, yes, if 1 choose to avail myself of it. To tell the truth, I’m 
undecided. 1 did intend to abandon the old country altogether and 
come across here to work for my living, but — ” 

“ You’ve altered your mind, 1 guess.” 

“ 1 don’t know about that. All depends — on circumstances.” 

“ Wall, sir: if you should thina about a location, 1 should be 
willing to assist you to obtain one. Is mining at all in your line? 
You’re of a sirongish build, though not oversized.” 

“I’d prefer farming.” 

“ A cattle ranch in Texas? Wall, sir. I’ll sell you that, you bet.” 

“ But,” responded Robert, “ 1 told you I’ve no money.” 

“You did so, sir. But perhaps that’s of little consequence. A 
reversion is as good as dollars down.” 

Robert shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Or this,” added Judge Potterer: “ if you’ll buy my gold-mine 


UNDER WHICH KINU? 215 

slick from me, without Dolopy or anybody else interfering, I’ll throw 
in the ranch. ” 

“It's nonsense talking about it," protested Robert; “I’ve no 
means of raising money out here, and 1 would not borrow if 1 
could." 

“You air independent, sir — some." 

“Yes. I’m a laboring-man. I can earn what 1 eat." 

“ Is that so? 1 thought you said just now you had a big reversion 
in prospect?" 

“ Oh, yes, 1 have. But I’m a laborer, and 1 like laborers, and 1 
hate gentlemen. I’ve been tarred, judge, with the brush of honest 
toil, and you can’t wash the marks off me. 1 know that." 

“ And who, sir, may your father be— if it is from him that you 
have expectations?" 

“ Sir Robert Marmyon." 

Judge Potterer’s eyes flashed fire. “ 1 conclude, sir," he said, in 
a tone of rather cringing deference, for the sound of the handle to 
Sir Robert’s patronymic had fascinated him as it does very many of 
his compatriots, “ that your father is tarnation rich?" . 

“ So they say. He is a large land-owner." 

“ And the property is entailed. Is that so, sir?" 

“Yes." 

“ Then, Mr. Marmyon, it gives me the greatest pleasure to make 
your acquaintance. You have come, sir, to a country where we 
have no artificial distinctions between man and man; wliere every 
tub stands on its own bottom. ‘We air an appreciative people, sir, 
and you will find yourself appreciated by us. We value a man for 
what he is — narry else." 

Robert looked surprised, too much to gorge thissoft-saw'dei. But 
he replied, quietly; 

“ What 1 want to know particularly is how a laboring man gets 
on in this country. 1 mean a man wlio earns a weekly w^age, as we 
do in England." 

“ Why, certainly. Wall, yer better judge for yourself. There’s 
no class of men out here earn more or live easier than the miners. 
Three days’ work to three days’ drink, and Sunday for a bully. 
They’re a very smart lot, are the miners in my employ, sir. You 
shall see them to-morrow, ’ ’ 

“ That will suit me well," replied Robert. “ I’m right down tired, 
I am, of rubbing shoulders with gentlemen. They ain’t of my 
kidney, jude:e. A day or two with my fellows would do me a 
power of good, and if it wasn’t for the heat of this climate 1 should 
relish a half day with a pick." 

dudge Potterer almost hazarded a laugh. It was many years since 
he had done anything of tiie sort, but the notion of a gentleman pre- 
ferring positive labor to luxury struck him as being so ludicrously 
paradoxical that he found some little difficulty in keeping his coun- 
tenance. He did so, however. 

“Sir," he rejoined, “you are gifted with the soul of a citizen. 
We will liquor, sir, and return to the hotel. To-morrow we start 
early for Jeffsville, and shall, 1 trust, reach our location at the mine 
by the evening. After you, Mr. jMarmyon." 

L'homme propose. The next morning it would have been difficult 


216 


TO DEE WHICH KIH-G? 


indeed to decide which of the maniacs of the previous evening was 
the giealei’ corpse. Both were well-nigh blind, speechless, and more 
or less epileptic. Of all poisons the art of man has as yet succeeded 
in extracting from a harmless vegetable substance, pulque for de- 
structiveness bears the palm. It begins by turning the sanest of 
mortals into infuriated lunatics, and when themadfit has been slept 
oft the body is left in a condition of disorganization quite perilous to 
all except the strongest constitutions; and yet, just as people may 
accustom themselves to swallow arsenic, until at last they can with 
impunity swallow a dose that would be fatal to an ordinary rnan, so 
the habitual bibbers of pulque, if they keep within their maximum, 
can partake with impunity. Thus while Judge Potterer put away 
his joium of this treacherous beverage, and was subsequently if 
none the better, most assuredly none the worse, Mr. St. Vincent and 
l.)olopy suffered untold agonies for their indiscretion. 

No amount of persuasion cOuld induce either of these men, in the 
very hey-day of their life, to move a peg. Both appealed piteously 
to be left alone to a burning head, a trembling frame, and such 
nausea as the experienced only know. 

“ ’Twill take a week to bring them to,” murmured the judge, 
more than half ashamed of what w'as intended by him as a practical 
joke. “ Guess I’ll track as tar as the mine and back again. Air 
you disposed to come with me, Mr. Marm5mn?” 

Robert was disposed — very. But he thought it would be only 
civil to inform Horace St. Vincent of the judge’s proposal. .The 
response he received was a request to go anywhere and stop there, 
from which Robert argued, by no means irrationally, that pedigree 
is not the source of politeness. If Horace had been the prickliest 
agave out of which that seductive fluid w^as decocted, he could not 
have exhibited a rougher exterior. His manner had changed in a 
few short hours from the saccharine, oleaginous, and jovial to the 
bitter, the rough, and the miserable — Telle est la 'pulque! 

Robert, therefore, and the judge departed, leaving word that they 
might be expected to turn up again in the course of tour or five days; 
and as soon as they were gone, Dolopy, like a prudent man, roused 
himself so far as to order the attendant negro to send for the local 
doctor. 

Esculapius, in the guise of a respectable practitioner under the 
segis of the Stars and Stripes, differs not very widely from his con- 
gener on the estate of the Duke of Westminster in the English 
metropolis. He is not, like the London doctor, a Scotchman, and 
his properties are more republican and less spick-and-span. He 
does not assume a frock-coat as an emblem of a faultless diagnosis, 
nor a chimney-pot hat as a symbol of superlative diplomas. He omits 
to ride in a pill-box, and occasionally chews and expectorates. But 
his instincts are the same, only smarter; and whereas Esculapius of 
London contents himself with vivisecting dogs under a license from 
a human home secretar}’", and Esculapius of Paris devotes his hours of 
leisure to the sublime sport of torturing horses as well as other 
animals, Esculapius of ’ Eiisco indulges in a loftier flight of cruelty. 
His subjects are — occasionally, of course— niggers, and the wonder 
is, considering that vivisection is aflirmed to "be the royal road to 


TODER AVHICH KIXG? ^17 

physiological omniscience, that he has not long before this enlight- 
ened nW Euroap, as he terms that inferior locality. 

Dr. Ulysses A. Robb had had a large experience of pulque mania. 
He knew all its symptoms by heart, and his method of curing it 
might be deemed by an unenligntened European as slightly unpro- 
fessional. Enough that it was practical. 

“ Cal’clate,” he muttered over the silent corpse of Captain 
Dolopy, “ you’ve made a mistake. You may suppose that the 
national drink of the State of Mexico is milk-and-water, but it air 
an error to act upon that hypothesis — some!” 

“Can at you give me something to cure this, ugh, sickness, sir, 
and this gug— ghastly headache?” 

Why, cert’nly, stranger.. If you’ll do as 1 tell you, you'll be 
alive in an hour, but it will be necessary after re-vival to produce 
something like intoxication. Similia simikhus curantur,^' 

‘‘ Ughl Don’t talk of it,” groaned Dolopy. ” You don't know, 
jloctor, how 1 long to be a teetotaler.” 

” Wall, sir, yes. After this bout don’t let me stop you. But if 
you summon me as your professional adviser 1 must see you 
through. ’ ’ 

Captain Dolopy had not the force to resist, so he swallowed a 
rather bitterish compound, capped it with a glass of cognac, and in 
five minutes opened his eyes on existence. 

In the meantime Doctor Ulysses had been enjoying a regular tussle 
with Horace St. Vincent. That gentleman being naturally of a 
mercui'iat temperament had succumbed unutterably. His was, if 
possible, the worse case of the two, and when all the science of a 
Robb was brought to bear on it, the ungrateful wretch was provok- 
ingly inappre'ciative. 

‘‘If you’ll be so very, very kind,” he whispered, in the most 
musical of tenors—” so very, very, very kind, my dearest doctor, as 
to permit me to die in peace 1 will give you my blessing.” 

” You bet, sir. That’s noi my fee. As many of the other things 
as you may choose, so long as they’re covered by dollars. Come, 
sir. This spirit is not worthy the descendant of the heroes of Bunker 
Hill, You must allow me to prescribe for you right away.” 

” Yes,” gurgled Dolopy, entering the chamber of his companion. 
” Ihe doctor’s stuff has half cured me. Don’t be a fool, Horace, 
he knows his book, depend upon it. Yours is not the first corpse 
he’s galvanized. Look at me ” 

” 1 can’t,” groaned Horace. ” My sight is gone, and I have got 
at least a dozen sonatas in perfect form ringing in my ears simultane- 
ously. They’re all in different keys, and are so arranged that while 
the scherzo of one is being played, so also is the andante of another, 
the adagio of a third— in tact, my dear fellow, the whole of the 
pianoforte music of Beethoven in a condensed form is being now 
performed by an army of vigorous pianists in the center of my brain. 
J never before realized the true meaning of the term discord.” 

” Boshl” growled Dolopy. ” Here, "old man, your business is to 
get well. Swallow this tipple, or by George I’ll cram it down your 
throat.” 

And he literally forced the medicine past the unwilling lips of 
Horace. - 


218 tJNDER -W-HICH KING? 

Dr. Ulysses A. Robb stood rarelessly observing this maneuver. 
When it was accomplished he remarked, quietly, “ In haf an hour, 
gentlemen, 1 hope to see you again. Au rewir!'' 

Thei^a/was a whole hour, but it allowed the victims of Judge 
Potlerer’s joke to wash and dress. Both, however, malgre^ their 
ablutions, greeted him on his reappearance with the ghastliest ot 
smiles. 

“ Well, Britishers, ’’ he cried, cheerily, “ and what’s your opinion 
of pulque?” 

“ Nympha pulcherrima,” grunted Horace. 

” Why, cert’nly. That’s what you call a pun. Wall, now, to 
proceed with my patent five-dollar cure. Here, you nigger,” ad- 
dressing the chief Sambo ot the hotel, ” a nice salad, some capsicums, 
Chili vinegar, and a bottle of French brandy.” 

” I can’t eat,” protested Horace, miserably. 

” Nor I,” echoed Dolopy, with an air of disgust. But Doctor 
Ulysses did not condescend to argue. As soon as the exquisite salad 
of the southern spring-time put in an appearance, he forced each 
man to bite a mouthful with a fragment of capsmum. Little by lit- 
tle they began to pick, as a dog suflering from a surfeit. Then he 
administered doses of brandy, until at last he had the satisfaction of 
hearing them call for a slice of pie and commence a regular meal. 
After that he pocketed his ten dollars, and with a caution to them 
not to floor a second bottle of brandy, beat a retreat. 

The cure was in truth magical. Captain Dolopy eat like a hungry 
ostrich, and after deglutition relapsed into one of those opiated cigars 
ot the Southern States that would shake the world, it only it had a 
mouth to smoke it; while Horace, to while away the time, called for 
pen, ink, and paper, and indited his first love-letter to pretty Miss 
Ida Frankalmoign. 

We will, if you please, peep over his shoulder and play spy. This 
is how he ran off; 

” O sweet JMiss Ida, many-fountaineff Ida, dearest Miss Ida, hear 
me ere 1 die! In case you slioulil not be as well versed in your Ten- 
nyson as you ought to be, this is to assure you that I am not indulg- 
ing in a flight ot fancy on my own account. 1 told you, cara mia, 
tnat 1 would scribble when in the mood. The mood has been on 
me for the past twelve hours. It is the optative mood, the mood 
which makes absent lovers long tor their idols. Shall 1 make my 
confession? That longing, to me, has assumed the awful form of 
fever heat. As 1 lay amid the fireflies last night, with the moon ot 
the tropical sky shedding its effulgence round my couch, I thought 
and thought of my Ida till the blood burned in my veins, and my 
temples throbbed, and my tongue seemed parched and pallid. All 
through the livelong night your sweet image flitted before the retina 
ot my eye, and so wild was my brain, so quick my pulse, that at 
daybreak they brought to my bedside — what a satire! — a doctor. 
Tou, dear one — and j^ou alone — could cure the malady of the heart, 
but they, the people round me, knew it not. They prated ot fever, 
but they lied. Tou remember the words of the German poetaster — 
name uncertain, it don’t sicnify — to which Mendelssohn wedded his 
divine art? ‘ Ah! love is a sad affair, love without relief j men thus 
oft are killed with care, maidens die of grief ’—the translation, 1 


UNDER WHICH KING? 219 

suspect, murders the original. A 2 WO'pos, your swain was in a state 
better imagined than described. He had had— to tell you a little 
secret — a love philtre, one of those subtle influences known only to 
the Mexican Indians. Thej'' call it ‘ pulque ' — a prett}’’ name, isn’t 
it? Aliro, 1 must not tempt Venus again! Her philtres give one 
delicious dreams, but they are quite too much for such an amalgam 
of fibers, nerves, and emotions as your devoted Horace. 

“ I’m not going to send you a budget of dry details. We—i.e., 
Captain Dulop}'’, who by tayor of Apollo happened mercifully to be 
crossing with ub, the p.ow'inan and 1— are infestimr San Francisco. 
The plownian has levanted for the present, to niy great relief, in 
order to witness the moral spectacle of some miners at work. Give 
a sheet of paper, Ida mta, the nicest of kisses, and send it me by re- 
turn. You need not trouble to write. A kiss is enough. Adieu I 
Ever, 

“ Horace. 

“ P.S. — If the plowman goes and gets himself into a scrape with 
those miners, don’t blame me. My idea is to bring him home safe 
and sound, and then to obtain shelter for myself in the nearest work- 
house. H.” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

“labor down south.” 

Long Camp is one of those townships which seem to have grown 
in a night. Built of wood, and consisting of a group of irregular 
huts, it serves wcllennugh to house the rough-and-ready miners who 
give theii labor to capitalists of the Potterer type— men who, as that 
intelligent judge explained, divide life pretty evenly between work 
and drink. The hands on his set were, needless to add, by birth, of 
diflerent rationalities, though one and all professed allegiance to the 
great Republic; but in practice the village perpetrated what may be 
termed autodichotomy — in plain English, it divided itself into two 
parts, five-sixths designating themselves Yankees, albeit they might 
be Germans or Cornishmen, the remaining sixth being Irish. Ger- 
man, English, Scotch, Welsh, Spaniards, and Americans born, some- 
how could assimilate together and live as comrades; but the urn 
fortunate peculiarity of the Irish, here as elsewhere, was their ina- 
bility to maintain harmonious relations wdtli the others. They 
began by asserting themselves unduly, and ended by provoking the 
hostility of their fellow- workers. The result was that Ijong Camp 
village consisted of two hostile camps, existing on terms of mutual 
detestation. 

When Robert arrived at this location— to adopt the terminology of 
the country — his first act was to buy at the store a suit of miners’ 
integuments, and to substitute them for the more elegant raiment of 
Mr. Snip, of Bond Street, W. Having arrayed his limbs in this cos- 
tume, with a hat that looked as though it had been constructed to 
cover the heads of the entire College of Cardinals, he felt himself 
again. David had thrown oft the armor of Saul and his lungs were 
free. The man of the people had rejoined the ranks of the people, 


UNDER WHICH KING? 

and he positively laughed to think that for a biief space, at all events, 
he should cease to be a gentleman — a sham gentleman. 

Judge Fotlerer may not, perhaps, have very largely appreciated 
this metamorphosis, but he did not pass any comment upon it, his 
main object being to interest Sir Robert Marmyon’s heir in the mines 
nominally in his possession, whereof one only, that denominated 
“ The Popsy,” was in full work. The judge, in fact, never kept his 
eye off business, and when he saw, or thought he saw, a chance of 
its accruing, he followed the scent up with the dogged pertinacity of 
a sleuthhound. 

At the same time he was quite the reverse of gratified when, after 
a day’s inspection of the mines, Robei»t, who had tried his utmost to 
make friends with the hands, abandoned his society in the evening 
for that of these working-men. It w’as an odd and an abnormal 
proceeding for a quasi -gentleman — even so far down South. 

“ Wall,” he remarked, sotto voce, as he perceived this young man 
of birth, if not of breeding, hobnobbing with fellow^s of wiiose ante- 
cedents he himself knew a little too much, “ it will be a clean mercy 
if the Irish don’t gouge him for a Britisher and the Yankees for an 
aristocrat. The man’s a tarnation sentimentalist about the rights of 
labor. ’ ' 

As a matter- of fact the worthy judge was a trifle at fault. Neither 
Yankees nor Irish are ever in too great a hurry to injure one whose 
hand dips readily into his pocket in order to provide gratis drink 
ad lib. Now Robert having money about him, and being: moreover 
anxious to ingratiate himself with these merry miners, exhibited an 
almost reckless lavishness, and was soon rewarded by the obtrusive 
friendship of at least a dozen of them, including notably the spokes- 
man of the Irishry, Pat h iayney, and the bully of the opposite party, 
Billy Benito, a gentleman w-ho spoke all languages fluently, and 
might have been Spanish or Cornish, but wdiose local reputation 
w as based on certain exploits which, in a more advanced condition 
of civilization, would have placed a halter round his neck, not quite 
undeservedly. 

Both these fellows, and their mates to boot, were in fact the row- 
diest of row^di^, and wmuld have handled Robert unmercifully but 
for his purse. That for the nonce convex tel them into toadies, 
whose fluukyism was carefully veiled under a cloak of independence. 

“ 1 should advise you, sir.” remarked Billy Benito, ” to give that 
lyish lot a w-ide birth — at least if you wish to fit our people. AVe air 
men of liberal sentiments, sir, and we don’t mean to tolerate that 
Jot much longer. That’s it, sir!” 

” AVhy not?” asked Robert. ” Frayney seems to me a clever in- 
telligent fellow, and there’s any amount of work in these Irishmen.” 

” That is so, sir. But this is a free country, sir, and we work as 
we like, and wnlh the men we like, AVe don’t like these Irishmen, 
sir. and that’s it!” 

“But,” pleaded Robert, “on the sj^stem you have here, every 
man’s his own master. You pay yourselves, you ain’t paid as we 
are in the old country. Now, that being so, why should you inter- 
fere with men w^'ho don’t interfere with you?” 

“ AYall, Britisher, if you ask me why, ’tis because this land’s al- 
mighty free. Thai's it / ’ ’ 


tJKDER WHICH ivH^O? 221 

“ And you are free to act as you choose, justly or unjustly, rightly 
or wrongly. Is that your idea?” 

‘‘ You bet, stranger. That's itl” 

” But how do you expect, on those lines, people to pull together?” 

Mr. Billy Benito smiled. “We just don’t,” he responded. ” We 
just make ’em pull our way. TIuH's it/'" 

” And suppose they won’t? Frayney, for instance, seems to be 
rather hot because his men are not allowed to work on some placer 
— 1 forget the name?” 

Is that so?” 

” Well. 1 don’t want to make mischief, but from the way he 
spoke just now 1 gathered that he was smarting under a sense of in- 
justice.” 

” i"ou are in error, Britisher. The Irish people never feel an in- 
justice. What riles ’em up is their imaginations. You go, sir, and 
hurt an Irishman— put half his light out, burn his location over his 
head, take the dollars out of his pocket; do you think, sir, he’ll love 
you the worse for it? Ko, sir, he will not. He will respect you tor 
that same, sir. But, sir, if any cuss of an editor of a newspaper, or 
some loafer with a long tongue, tells an Irishman that j’^ou’ve in- 
. suited him, or robbed his ancestor a thousand years ago, though you 
might be his best friend, he’d go for your throat. lliaVsit!" 

.‘‘Absurd!” ejaculated Robert, impatientl 3 \ 

‘‘ What’s that you say?” observed Benito, the dark olive of his 
complexion suddenly reddening. 

‘‘ 1 say you’re wrong in your estimate of the Irish. It doesn’t 
stand to reason that any nation gifted with common-sense should 
act so.” 

‘‘ That’s it, sir.” 

” And especially a warm-hearted, generous race.” 

‘‘ You bet, Britisher. And you may try them it you will. Per- 
haps I’m wrong. Perhaps 1 don’t know my book. 1 wish you 
good evening, stranger.” 

1 bej’’ had been standing in the angle of a drinking-saloon, and as 
Mr. Billy Benito retired, evidently in a huff, Robert — perhaps to 
show his independence— advanced toward Pat Frayney, who was 
talking loudly to some four or five of his compatriots hard by. It 
he had chanced to ga^^e after the retiring form of the man he had 
offended, he might have perceived the unwisdom of this maneuver, 
for Benito, as he passed out of the long shed devoted to Bacchus, 
cast a glance over his shoulder, and his expression when he per- 
ceived the young fellow in close conference with his Irish rival was 
much the reverse of amiable. In fact, the row'dy muttered a curse 
of the sort that goes out to roost; and men thereabouts vrould tell 
you that Benito, who, unlike most men of his type, seldom em- 
ployed expletives, when he did curse never cursed in vain. 

Frayney Robert found just as voluble as Benito had been reticent. 
It is rather the habit of the Irish to thunder loud before they lighten 
— in fact the lightning more often than not has its origin in a vain 
desire to apologize for the noise of the previous thunder. 

” Oi’m proud, sorr,” be said, after flooring a dollar’s worth of 
Robert’s liquor, “to enjoy the comp’ny of a rale gintleman. Me 
ancesihois, sorr, was the ancient kings of Oireland, and the family 


UNDER WHICH KING? 

estates extended over a matther of siv’n counties. The loitle-dades, 
sorr, are in the possession of me forther, and he — to the aytornal 
disgrace of the oiild taymaie that resides at AVindsor Castle, sorr — 
he, the man, sorr, that ought by roights to be the Imperor of the 
Oirish Republic, sorr, inhabits a mud cab’n on the roadsoide. But 
the toitle-dades are in his sacred possession, sorr, and he this and be 
that, the toime will come when theFrayneys will wield the scepthre 
from say to say, and put their foot on tlie humbled Saxon.” 

“Yes,” replied Robert, dryly. “I’ve got a pedigree, too, 1 
believe, and my father has any amount of title-deeds; but, Mr. 
Frayoey, the only pedigree 1 believe in is a record of labor done for 
the world, and the only title-deed is honest industry.” 

“ A very purty sentiment, me dear sorr, but h’wat would become 
of your labor, sure, and your industhry, soir, if ye happened to be 
one of us?” 

“ AVell, I suppose 1 should meet with fair-play, or, if not, 1 fancy 
I could take care of myself,” 

“ Bedad, sorr, thrue for you. And ” — in a stage whisper—” that 
away’s the oidintical thrick we chaps mane to play. There’s jus- 
tice, sorr, in Long Camp, fot anny nation or payple or language,' ex- 
cept ’tis won, and that won’s the won, sorr, that boasts the blood of 
the Frayneys.” 

“ Indeed!” 

“ It’s the thruth Oi’m tellin’ ye, sorr. It there’s a placer in his 
location as is known to contain the stuff, sorr, the Oirish gintleman 
is ordthered off it; and it there’s a bit of quartz widout a stiake of 
gould in it, that’s good enough tor the loikes of us. It’s the preju- 
dice, sorr, that has been imported across the broad sorface of the say 
agin the greatest nation in the worruld. But, sorr, be this and be 
that, and be the other into the bargain, sorr, the mom’nt’s arrived 
h’wen the b’hoys manes to purtict thimsilves. Oi’m just waitin’, 
sorr, for a few days to give them a last chance, and then, be jabers, 
if they persist in their opposition to the best and bravest moiners in 
the worruld and the TJnoited Sates of America, it will be moy duly, 
sorr, as the chayfe of the Oirish sittlemenl in this location, to sorve 
a formil notice on the felly they calls Benito — though sure thal’s 
not his forther’s name Oi’ll be bound— as the layder of the other 
side, sure.” 

“ A notice? What good will that do?” 

“ Moighty little. It’s not worruds that breaks heads; it’s dades. 
Our programme, sorr, will be to take our reviuge, loike gintlemen, 
and thin depart in payee.” 

“ But,” suggested Robert “ it you are in the right can’t the diff- 
erence be settled by arbitration?” 

“Bedad. no: and ye think now that we’d be arbithrated upon? 
Not h’woile there’s a bull’t or a knoife to be handled. In all disputes 
the only just judge is the plaintiff when you’re that party, sorr, and 
h’wen you’re not, then the defendant, sure. Give your own vordict, 
man, in your own case, and ye’ll never be in the wTong.” 

“ AA'ell,” laughed Robert, “ that’s one way of looking at it, and 
a practicable one it you happen to be the stronger of the two; but 
what if you are the weaker?” 


UNDER WHICH KING? 223 

“ Thrust the b’hoys tor that! The wayker, sorr, Is the telly that 
sthroikes the siccind blow. Give me the turrust shot, and whe’ew!” 

“ ISo,” rejoined Robert, “ 1 don’t agree to that. It you have jus- 
tice on your side, and you can’t get your opponent to hear you, then 
let a third, and ai unbiased perjon, plead your cause.” 

” Git away wid yer blather, sorr. We nivir ijlayde; we putts for- 
ward our demand wonce m a worrud, twoice in a worrud, and the 
thoid toime wid the persuasive el'quence of a six-chambered 
revolver.” 

” A.nd you gain a verdict by bullet?” 

” Thrue tor you, sorr.” 

Or else the other fellows gain it, eh?” _ 

” That’s as’t may be.” 

” Quite so. And where you’re outnumbered in the proportion of 
ten to one, the odds must be dead against you, even if you do get 
the first shot. Suppose now that 1, a total stranger, were to try and 
pull matters round? Would that suit your book? Because I don't 
mind the job.” 

Mr. Frayney regarded him with amazement. ” Ye may thry, 
sorr,” he replied, ” and welcome, but, bedad, it ye was to succade, 
Oi’d ate me ould leather breeches, 1 would.” 

Robert smiled proudly. ” I’ll sleep over it,” he said, in a tone of 
quiet confidence. ‘‘You see, Mr. Frayney, 1 happen to be a great 
believer in labor. It makes a man of a man, and he who is a man 
is open to reason— or ought to be.” 

And Pat Frayney did not care to contradict him. 

It had been the intention of Robert during the progress of this 
dialogue to constitute himself amateur arbitrator, but as Frayiiey - 
developed his game he perceived the unwisdom of acting on im- 
pulse. Indeed "he mentally decided to consult Judge Potterer. fihat 
worthy knew the geography of the country and the instincts of its 
inhabitants. 

” Guess you’ll get it right and left, Britisher,” said that limb of 
the law in response to his query. ‘‘ They make coffins at the store 
almighty slick, but you can be measured before commencing that 
business; you’ll want that fixin’, sir.” 

‘‘I’m not afi^id of that,” answered Robert. “Neither side 
would care to injure me. They both know my motive, and can 
appreciate it.” , 

‘‘ Why, cert’nly.” ! 

*‘ And you don’t tell me they’d be so dastardly as to punish thq, 
umpire? I won’t believe that of any body of working-men, what- 
ever be their nationality.” 

‘‘1 am not requesting you, stranger, to believe me. You can 
make a trial of which is in the right, but 1 should prefer, sir, that 
you put oft that experiment till your friends appear on this scene. 
Tney might blame me.” 

‘‘ Then you really think that an arbitrator in this country runs a 
heavy risk?” 

“No, Britisher, 1 do not think so.” 

But you said as much this very moment!” 

Why, certainly. But 1 do not think so; 1 know it.” • . 

“Oh!” ejaculated Robert, petulantly. ‘‘And you’re anxious 


UNDER WHIOH KTNO? 


324 

that 1 should take no steps to further the views of FYayney till such 
time as Mr. St. Vincent puts in an appearance here?” 

” That is so, Mr. Marmyon. You haven’t had my experience of 
California mining. There is much in the ramifications of that busi- 
ness to surprise a Britisher. For instance, you have seen my set on 
the quartz— 1 call it ‘ The Popsy,’ hut it goes by a dozen names. 
Wall, sir, on the dumps there is ore to the extent of a quarter of a 
million dollars. 1 shall sell that mine, sir, and the purchaser after 
the transfer will be authoiized to remove that ore. He will buy on 
these conditions, sir, but he will be undeceived sooner or later. ” 

” How? If the man buys the ore, it stands to reason he will take 
it away. It is his.” 

” Just so. You bet.” 

” Then what in the name of conscience stops the way?” 

“ Wall, sir, this is a free country. As soon as he showed sijrns of 
appropriating that ore, he would receive a notice — a caveat, sir. 
And if he neglected that, sir, the mine would be blown up and he 
along with it it he w'as on the spot b}^ any chance. You see, sir, 
this is a free country.” 

‘‘ In that case what right have you, judge, to sell the mine with 
the ore on the bank?” 

” Wall, sir; my title-deeds are duly registered and attested. 1 am 
owner of that property, sir, including the ore. If the purchaser is 
smart he will make no mistake. And if he’s not, 1 cannot supply 
his mental deficiency, sir.” 

JRobert would argue no further. Slowly it began to dawn upon 
his intelligence that down South the standard of moral rectitude 
varied considerably from that of the decalogue. Still he cherished 
a secret belief in the latent honor of the men of labor, and though 
he acquiesced in Judge Potterer’s suggestion to postpone his offer of 
arbitration till the advent of Horace, he none the less strove to culti- 
vate amicable relations with Benito, who seemed rather stand-off, 
and Frayney, who was much the reverse. He tried, too, his hand 
with a pick and made himself the comrade of all indifferently. In- 
deed, before the week was out he had gained a sort of surface popu- 
larity, though he failed to perceive that they voted him rather an 
eccentric if not as a man of weakish intellect. ^ 

At the end of the week there arrived from Captain Dolopy a brief 
missive to the effect that neither he nor Horace had quite recovered, 
and they did not propose coming to Long Camp just yet. 

Judge Potterer on receipt of this expectorated rather freely, his 
only sign of emotion. 

“ Darn their business,” he muttered, testily. 

What’s the matter?” asked Bobert, innocently, adding, “ Why 
don’t they turn up?” 

*‘ The matter, sir,” repeated the judge, again expectorating, “ you 
may spell with a big B and end with an ‘ r.’ That’s their business, 
sir.” 

” 1 don’t understand.” 

“ W« call it baccarat, sir, in the country,” replied the judge. 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


225 


CHAPTER XXXIL 

DIVERSITY OP MORAL SENTIMENT. 

It was a whole fortnight before those amiable Arcadians, Captain 
Dolopy and Horace St. Vincent, condescended to appear in Long 
Camp, and when they did show, Robert fancied that they looked 
preternaturally grave; certainly they were given to much private 
whispering and sundry confidences of the mysterious sort with 
Judge Potterer. The fact was, and it need not be concealed, that 
these gentlemen had fallen in accidentally with some very agreea- 
ble, not to say lubricous society in San Francisco, and had also, to 
amuse themselves and their new friends, indulged in unlimited 
gambling. The result may be easily anticipated. Both men were 
cleared out, Dolopy of bis apocryphal securities, Horace of the large 
sum in circular notes which Sir Robert Marmyon had intrusted to 
him for the costs and charges of the long tour. Judge Potterer, 
with his Yankee acumen, had shrewdly guessed what they were 
about, and the true reason for their non-appearance. 

On the morrow after they came — it was on the top of much sur- 
reptitious chattering of a suspicious kind — Horace remarked casu- 
ally, but in a sort of tone of command, “ By the bye, JMarmyon, 1 
shall want you to sign this small document.'’ 

Robert looked at him in surprise, a sentiment considerably height- 
ened when he perceived that the document in question was a bill of 
exchange. 

“ 1 don’t iindersland,” he replied, coldly. 

“ It’s nothing,” laughed Horace, turning to Dolopy, who joined 
in the forced giggle. ” Nothing— a mere form, but you will kindly 
write your name where I have marked it in pencil.” 

Robert's face flushed. Horace had with cool assurance placed the 
document under his nose, together with a pen and ink. He took it 
up and read it over. It was an engagement to pay within six months 
the sum of one hundred thousand dollars. 

” hat do you take me for?” he demanded, in a stern and angry 
tone. 

Horace was about to reply in his usual vein of impertinence, when 
Dolopy cut in — 

‘‘ We wished you, Mr. Marmyon, to oblige us so far,” he said. 
‘‘But, of course, if you’d rather not, why then, Horace,” turn- 
ing to his friend, ” it really is of no consequence. I can sign.” 

And he drew away the document and silting down lo the table 
scribbled hurriedly across it. Whereupon Horace burst out laughing, 
scornfully. At that instant— perchance it -was in response to ir sig- 
nal — the judge entert^d.aml Horace hastily handed him the bill with 
the remark, ‘‘ It’s all light. I am witness to the signature. ” . 

A thought flashed across Robert’s brain. With the quickness of 
desperation lie walked up to the judge and snatched the bill out of 
his unsuspecting hand; then perceiving that Dolopy had forged his 
name, he tore it to ribbons, and flung it in the rogue’s face. 

8 - 


22Q UKDER ^YHIOH Kmfi? 


To his indignation all three joined in one long gu&aw. They 
were confederates— possibly. 

“You are very clever, Mr. Marmyon, very,” remarked Horace. 
“ But you have only cost us the price of a bill-stamp. That is all. 
Next time we shall not require your presence when we draw up a 
bill tor acceptance. Shall we, Dolopy?” 

“ Too expensive,” roared that gentleman — “ quite too — too^ 

“1 shall take my own course,” vejoincd Bobert, feeling himself 
driven to bay. “And it will be one that you, Mr. St. Vincent, 

may regret.” •, i i . 

Horace was about to hazard a rejoinder, but Robert abruptly left 
them, neither did he return, taking up liis quarters in fact with Pat 
Frayney, with whom he had established relations approximating 
to intimate friendship, 

“ Wall,” remarked Judge Potterer, “ that cuss is fly, sirs. He may 
be a infant, but his vision is not quite limited to this side of a stone 
wall.” 


“ It does not signify one little bit,” refi^ied Dolopy, rather nerv- 
ously. “ 1 can sign the fool’s name, and Horace can swear to it. 
That’s good enough, judge, isn’t it, to raise the dollars on?” 

The judge, however, though he had joined in their laugh because 
of Robert’s wrath at their attempted trickery, was evidently indis- 
posed to fall in with the wily project of the gay captain. 

“ Wall,” he replied, “ you may buy your dollars just a cent too 
dear. 1 was willing, in order to oblige you, gentlemen, and in con- 
sideration of your obtaining for me the signature of the heir to this 
big location >mu talk about" over in the old country — Lwas willing, 
you bet, to get the paper discounted at a deduciiou of fifty per cent., 
and to make what 1 could out of the transaction. But, gentlemen, 
I can’t afford to run a bit of bogus paper, knowing it to be bogus, 
and with the certainty of ultimate detection. That would be smart 
— some, but not my Tine of business. ’ ’ 

“ 1 see,” responded Horace, “ you’re nervous, lest w’hen this bill 
came to maturity, it should not be dishonored, but repudiated.” 

“ That is so — just so.” 

“ Then, perhaps, you’ve got up a scare about nothing. Who 
know^s that fellow’s signature from Adam?” ' 

“ Some cuss or other, I guess.” 

“You are wrong— nobody. You don’t comprehend his past 
history. He was a common day-laborer on his father’s estate. 1 
don’t suppose he ever had occasion to sign his name. He certainly 
never writes a line home to a soul, and, of course, w^hen he lived at 
Marmyon, he never had occasion to put pen to paper. 1 question 
whether his autograph exists in the world, and as for its being dis- 
covered by a ’FHsco discounter, that’s too ridiculous to be talked 
about,” 

But Judge Potterer did not seem convinced, though he took 
refuge in silence— and expectoration. 

“Don’t you agree with Horace?” asked Dolopy, after a pro- 
longed pause. 

“ Why, cert’nly.” 

“ Then where’s the difficult}’^? Out with it, old man!” 

“The difficulty,” replied the judge, “is this. You people are 


UNDER AVHICH KING? 227 

ready to run any risks to collar the pieces. You will forge IMai- 
myon’s name kerslap, and expect him to pay up without putting a 
question, or flashing an objection. And you do this after having 
given the man notice of what you mean. You may think he don’t 
write, and won't write. Is that so? You bet, he’ll write the 
whole tale by next mail right away to Sir Robert Marymon.” 

Horace winced. 

“ Will he?” cried Dolopy. “ Not if 1 know it, my boy!” 

“ NYall— suppose he don’t? Suppose he’s too careless or too shy? 
The bill will have, notwithstanding, to be met. ’Frisco men don’t 
drop their dollars easily, I may tell you, sirs; and they will wire 
across to their agents in London, who will apply for payment slick. 
Then the whole darned balloon will go bust, and when Marmyon 
comes to sign his fist, they’ll mortal quick tell the difference be- 
tween another man’s autogi’aph of his name and his own auto- 
graph of his own name.” 

‘‘ Quite so,” observed Horace. Now we’re coming to the point. 
You have ingeniously invented, judge, a complete series of hy- 
potheses, any one of which upsets my conclusion. But you have 
omitted one, and that one by far the most important of all. Sup- 
pose Robert JMarmyon does not go back at all to England? Eh, my 
sapient friend?” 

“ Wall, sir. Then he will stop in the States, and the ’Frisco men 
will find him. They’d find him, sir, 1 pledge you the w'ord of a 
citizen, anywhere on the surface of this planet, on the top of Chim- 
borazo, or in the middle of the Desert of Sahara.” 

“Quite so,” laughed Horace. “Those ’Frisco blood-suckers 
have tentacles like an octopus. But— candidly— judge, do you 
think they can stretch as far as six foot underground?” 

“ Golly!” ejaculated Judge Potterer, his e.yes suddenly opening. 
“ You are the.smartest Britisher I have had the pleasure of meeting 
on this side.” 

“ Accidents will happen,” chimed in Captain Dolopy, “ and ac- 
cidents must— when it’s convenient.” 

“You are right, sir,” rejoined the judge, “and I appeciate the 
morality of your intentions. But— you will pardon me it I make a 
calc’lation. It is this, sir. You offer as a security the name of a 
gentleman who when the bill comes to maturity will not be alive to 
meet it. Is that so?” 

“ Yes, judge. That is precisely what 1 do mean.” 

“ Then, sir, it is my duty, as a professional jurist of the XJ— nited 
IStates, to inform you that your proposition’s not good enough.” 

“ What more do you require, judge?” 

“ A certificate of the decease of the party who purports to sign 
the document. Y^ou toll me he will encounter a fatal accident. 
Your word, gentlemen, is as good as your bond. But it might 
happen that tlie ’coon bolted. What then?” 

“ Oh, that’s absurd!” interposed Horace—” he’s no ’coon.” 

“ As a lawyer who has hanged a hundred men at least for the 
crime of murder,” rejoined Judge Potterer, with quiet emphasis, 
“ I am bound to make my security good. It’s almighty easy to sign 
any name across a bit of stamped paper, but it’s plaguy on-easy to 
put a bullet into a man’s waistcoat without being swung for it, 


228 UKDEK WHICH KIKG? 

more particularly down South, where there’s no jury to protect a 
gentleman, you bet.” 

“In plain English,” rejoined Dolopy, rather indignantly, “you 
don’t see your way to cashing a bill till — ” 

“ Till the light’s out of the nominal acceptor. That is so, sir.” 

“ Then,” remarked Horace, “ there’s no time to be lost, lor we’re 
both of us as dry as boards.” 

“ Wail.” remarked Judge Potterer, diffidently, “ that’s bad busi- 
ness. But, gentlemen, 1 should be sorry if you were to spoil ihe 
ship for a ha’porth of tar. You seem inclined, if you’ll excuse the 
liberty 1 take in commenting on your suggestion, to be in a mortal 
hurry. That’s a mistake. In all affairs of delicacy, sir — whether 
it’s women or war — never you be precipitate. That cuss, Marmyon, 
will not require any assistance from you gentlemen to remove him 
from active participation in the adairs of this planet. He is engaged 
at present in putting himself between tiie Yankees and the Irish at 
Long Camp village, and, you bet. between these two stools he will 
fall to the ground of his own accord. However, as you can’t afford 
to play a waitin’ game very long, if you will travel with me, gentle- 
men, as far as the city of San Francisco, 1 will find you a man to 
discount your bill for a small sum — say five hundred dollars — if 
that will serve your present purpose.” 

“ Hear him!” laughed Horace, gayly. “ This is splendid!” 

“ The perfection of ingenuity,” echoed Dolopy, adding, “ Judge, 
your brain is that of a Lord Chancellor.” 

The judge smiled and the bargain was struck. 

That same evening Robert encountered Billy Benito, and invited 
him to drink. Whether it was the warmth or the genius loci, or any 
other cause, certain it is that the young Kentishman had broken his 
old rule of abstinence. He was not intemperate, only rather free, 
and the incessant tobacco caused him to relish his iced drink in the 
evening. Consequently he never lacked company, and the rollick- 
ing independence of men, who were not only Republicans, but in a 
way anarchists, harmonized with his ideas. He would rather, as 
a matter of choice, have spent the rest of his life with a pick among 
the miners than as a baronet in the more responsible and exalted 
position of lord of all Marmyon. 

“ Guess, stranger, you’re alone here?” remarked Mr. Benito, after 
performing an act of suction at his expense with supreme dignity. 

“ Yes. I’m to myself. But you woikingmen are my friends, 
you know, and right down good company you are. Here’s toward 
you!” 

” We are equals, stranger, in this country,” rejoined Benito, 
dryly. “ 1 conclude now that your friends do not appreciate equal- 
ity much.” 

“ 1 don’t know anything about them,” retorted Robert. 

“ Why, certainly. You have split, 1 reckon. And they have 
made tracks right away for ’Frisco.” 

“ Eh, what?” 

“ Wall, don't you know? Judge Potterer, and those Europeans 
you were mating with, have cleared out. That’s it!” 

Robert said nothing, but his face paled. The thought flashed 


UXDER^ WHICH KIKG? 229 

across him that they had stolen off to San Francisco in order to make 
use of his name on a bill, and his features hardened. 

“ You look iipsel — some,’* observed Benito, curiously. 

“ Nothing, nothing. Let us change the subject. 1 was about to 
ask tor a ten minutes' talk with you on a matter of business. That’s 
all.” 

” Wall, yes, sir,” replied the other, in a tone of surprise. 

” But,” continued Robert, ‘‘now will do as well as any other 
time. Have a driDk,..friend? ” 

” 1 will so, sir, if you will join me in that same.” 

Tis preliminary settled, Robert proceeded. 

” The fact is, as a man of leisure who has come out to see the 
world, I’m ready always to give any one of my brethren in labor a 
helping hand.” 

” You are right, stranger,” rejoined Benito. ” 1 saw you handle 
a pick, ana you showed yourself a workman kerslap. That’s it.” 

‘‘ 1 don’t mean that. That’s mere play. No, what 1 am driving 
at is different. My wish is, wherever 1 may chance to be, whether 
’tis in England or America, or an3^where else, to try all I know to 
promote union among those who labor. Union, you know, Mr, 
Benito, is strength.” 

‘‘ That is so, and 1 guess we’re almighty strong here.” 

‘‘In one sense you are; in another not. You’re not all united, 
you see. There’s the mischief.” 

” Yes, sir, we are. We are united, every man of us.” 

“Except,” pleaded Robert, “a small knot of Irishmen, whom 
you send to Coventry. ” 

“ Is that so?” 

“Well, is it not? Arn’t yoU on the worst of terms with Pat 
Frayney and his friends?” 

“ No, sir, we are not. Frayney and that lot are on bad terms 
with us, and it may be necessary, if they interfere, to wipe them out 
altogether.” 

“ How so?” 

“ Wall, sir, you and a rat may live comfortably in the same cabin- 
But if the ral gnaws youi nose when you’re asleep, or kicks up a 
splutter when you’re awake, you kill that rat, sir.” 

“ Just so. But the Irish are not exactly rats.” 

“ They are not, sir— exactly. They are inferior— some, to that 
harmless vermin — you bet.” 

Robert opened his eyes. Here was an evidence indeed of malice 
— not to say viciousness. “ Come, come,” he cried, “ it won’t do to 
call Pat these names. He is a good fellow in his way, with an ugly 
temper, if you put him out, and a jolly one if you don’t. Now w'hat 
1 wanted to beg as a favor was that you’d allow me to be arbitrator 
between you and the Irish here. There’s a mutual misunderstand- 
ing which ought to be cleared up.” 

Mr. Billy IBenito, however, did not relish this. He started back, 
and his manner suddenly changed from servile deference to insolence 
and aggression. 

“ Sir,” he said, looking Robert up and down, “ you are not ac- 
customed to our people, or you’d never dream of this interfering. 


230 UNDEIl WHICH KING? 

We are a body of men, sir, that cannot stomach anybody intruding 
on our business — least ot all a Britisher. That’s it.” 

” No odense, 1 trust?” 

” yVall, sir: that must depend. You have been observed, sir, col- 
loquing with Frayney. We are a tree people in this country, sir, 
and your association with men, that will cause us trouble and blood- 
shed before they are wiped off finally, is not pleasing to a free peo- 
ple. It mayn’t be my business, sir, to thrust advice on a stranger, 
but, as you come from a laud that is swathed in the fetters of aris- 
tocracy, and don’t yet know the A B C of liberty, I’ll give you for 
once only the straight tip.” 

” And that is — 

‘ ‘ That a free people, stranger, air not prepared to much tolerate 
the presence of vermin for almighty ever. Now, sir! And — 1 wish 
you a good-evening.” 

Robert, in whose temperament, in spite of his natural realism and 
matter-of-fact speech, existed an admixture of romance, felt dashed 
at this speech. lie bad dreamed a dream of forcing Benito and 
Frayney to shake hands, and he now perceived it was but a dream 
and not capable of realization. In silence, therefore, he returned to 
Frayney ’s location, as he termed it — i.e., timber-house — and retired 
to rest in full consciousness of a bitter disappointment. 

He dreamed too. Not, however, of himself playing special provi- 
dence to the rival camps of Yankees and Irish. He dreamed that he 
was at Marmyon again, in the presence of Sir Robert, who sternly 
demanded wliat right he had to sign a bill for so large a sum as a 
hundred thousand dollars, and that when he denied the signature, 
and loudly protested it was a forgery. Captain Dolopy and Horace 
St. Vincent shouted him down with accusations of lying and swin- 
dling. 

This vision of the night had its effect. The next morning he 
arose at daybreak, and by the first train traveled post-haste to San 
Francisco, resolved, if he could, to stop the mischief he both sus- 
pected, and, in truth, had some grounds for suspecting. 

He arrived in ’Frisco in the afternoon, and went straight to Burl- 
bee’s Hotel. On the steps there met him — not, indeed, his compan- 
ions, but the nigger waiter. 

‘‘Golly, sare,” cried that functionary, ‘‘there am a letter for 
you.” 


CHAPTER XXXllI. 

” POOR PRIMROSE.” 

The letter may be termed in its wmy a curiosity, for its cacography 
might have puzzled an expert. The address was as follows : 

” Mister Robert Marmyon, or Uodye, Asquire, 

“Hi the Burlbecks Hotel, 

Sans Frankisko, ^ 

“/«■ Ameriky.** 

(The postage-stamps bore the image and superscription of Queen 
Victoria, and the postmarks were Marmyon, Kent, and London, over 
and above those of the Great Republic.) 


UNDER WHICH KING? 231 

Hobert Hodge opened tbe envelope hastily, and read with ditficiilty 
a scrawl to this ellect: 

“This be to warn you that you be sent to foreign parts to be 
doned away with. Him as is with you as your tren mean mischief. 
Give he the slip and come back when you can, or you will never 
come back no more. This is truth. A Fren. 

“ From Marmyou Court, in the County of Kent.” 

** Robert looked to the heading. There sure enough was stamped 
on ivory paper the familiar coat of arms of the family, with the ad- 
dress below^ in blue type. Who could have sent this missive? Not 
Polly. He never thought of her, deeming it utterly impossible that 
she could get hold of a scrap of that pretentious heraldic paper— in 
fact he crumpled it up liastily and consigned it to his pocket. 
Neither did the warning affect him at the moment otherwise than 
with curiosity as to the identity of the writer, who he imagined must 
have had some reason for wishing him to return to England. In- 
deed he suspected it to be a ruse on the part of Errol to involve him 
in a dispute with Sir Robert— in whom his confidence was not easily 
to be shaken. 

lie had not, however, as it happened, much time for puzzling his 
brain, inasmuch as to him advanced the tall and lean form of Judge 
Potterer. 

“ Wall, sir, so you have made tracks to this point?” 

“ 1 have come,” replied Robert, none the less gravely, perhaps be- 
cause of the warning he had received, ” to try and prevent mischief. 
There is a plot against me, judge!” 

Judge Potterer smiled sardonically as he volunteered his stereo- 
typed response, ” Is that so?” 

“You know it; you know that those rogues who boast themselves 
to be gentlemen are trying to raise money on my forged signature. 
1 should be glad to think that you were not their confederate. Any- 
liow I’m come to stop this little game, if 1 can.” 

Judge Potterer’s visage elongated, if it be possible, but he shrugged 
his shoulders indiflerentley as he asked, “ How so?” 

“ 1 shall inquire of the police,” said Robert, firmly and resolutely, 
“ for the names of the discounters in this city, and 1 shall make it 
my business to call on. them and administer timel}’’ w’aining.” 

The judge winced a little, but coolly replied, “ Perhaps lean save 
you the trouble. 1 know every man of the lot.’' 

“You know, I take it, who has been making advances to these men 
—your confederates? If- so, take me to him and save j'our own skin.” 

“ Why, certainly, right away. But you are wrong in supposing 
that these gentlemen have forged your name, or would be guilty of 
such an act. They have raised some dollars on their own bond. 
That is so. But when Dolopy signed your name across that bill he 
didn’t mean it. ’Twas only a bit of harmless blatherumskite, and 
you took it serious. ’ ’ 

Robert was staggered, but not convinced. 

“ Do’opy and St. Vincent,'’ continued the judge, “ have contract- 
ed a loan, and the lender is a personal friend of mine. Max Von 
Kopner, You can see him, if it is your pleasure, right away.” 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


232 

“ And 1 understand that my name has not been misused— forged, 
1 had better term it?” 

“It has not, Mr. Marmyon. And 1 tell you, sir, that Dolopy’s 
practical joke in signing your name was the act of a schoolboy; but 
it made us laugh some to‘ see you take it in airnest, sir, and rile up 
kerslap. 1 am, sir, a judge of the United States, and you do not 
surely imagine that a judge, sir, is capable of complicity with the 
crime of forgery?” 

“Well,” replied Robert, ‘‘of course, if it was only chaft, I’m 
sorry 1 took it amiss; but it’s the kind of joke to make a man of 
honor wild, isn’t it?” 

‘‘ Why, cert’nly.” 

” And 1 must say that when these men perceived that I did not 
treat it as «uch, but accredited them with outrageous rascality, they 
might ha'se put matters straight for their own sake, if not tor my 
satislaction. I’m bound to take your word, judge, but, frankly, 1 
don’t like the looks of it. Dolopy has' bared his hand to me without 
a blush, and St Vincent openly avows that he doesn’t own a single 
principle. The trick, therefore, w’as not quite beyond their measure, 
if 1 am to judge them by their own words.” 

” Wall, sir, if you were, as 1 am, a judge of the United Slates, 
that is about the last criterion you would select to test any man by. 
My notion of my fellow- creatures, sir. is this: The cuss that chat- 
ters funks; and the cuss that acts holds his tongue Your friends, 
sir, consider themselves to be almighty smart, but they’re small po- 
tatoes in this country. Dolopy, sir, in the city of London, England, 
may be some, but St. Vincent, sir, is not that, nor yet half of it, 
anywhere on the surface of this planet.” 

This depreciation of the men whom he could but regard with sus- 
picion had a pacif 3 dng effect on a mind that naturall}^ was too self- 
contained, not to say up in the clouds, to pay very close attention to 
the affairs of others. Robert, indeed, was about to drop the subject, 
when a sudden thought flashed across his brain, and found immedi- 
ate expression in words. 

‘‘You mean to infer that Mr. Horace St. Vincent is a simple- 
minded gentleman— eh, judge? Then answer me this: W'hy and 
wherefore has it become necessary for that same simple minded gen- 
tleman to borrow money? It is not so long since Sir Robert Marmyon 
intrusted him with a sum suificieut, so 1 heard him state, to pay our 
way round the globe. That sum cannot be e.^hausted by fair m'eani. 
1 do not know the precise amount, for 1 was not let into that secret, 
the bargain being that 1 was to be the pupil and not the master. But 
I’ll dare to take my oath that your simjde- minded sawmey has em- 
bezzled my father’s money — for what purpose 3 'ou may know, 1 
don’t.” 

Judge Potterer smiled. 

” Stranger,” he replied, with paternal gentleness, ‘‘ 1 do not pre- 
tend, to be the boss of Mr. Horace St. Vincent, neither am 1 his wife, 
nor his doctor, nor his lawyer. 1 am in ignmance, sir, of that gen- 
tleman’s secrets. But if you are dissatistied, dissolve partnership. 
You seem to be hitched on to the man; hitch off and let drift.” 

” I’ll have an explanation first,” answered Robert. 

Again Judge Potterer smiled, but this time Ae did not vouchsafe 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


233 


either response or remonstrance. On the contrary, after a rather 
awkward pause, ne passed the stereotyped remark, to fill up a hiatus 
in conversation, “Let's liquor." 

** No, thank you." 

“ There is, Britisher, a fresh tap of real French champagne, just 
imported from Euroapto this location. If you will do me the honor, 
sir, I shall be glad of your opinion on the merits of that wine." 

, . Robert would have reiterated his negative to any ordinary propo- 
Mtion in favor of fluid. This, however, sounded rather attractive. 
He had already developed an affection for sparkling wines, and his 
sensations at the moment were those of a hot, angered, and thirsty 
soul. Hence, without resistance, he suffered himself to be led away 
and liquored up then and there. 

There was something so direct, so cool, yet so uniformly quiet in 
the manner of Judge Potterer, as quite to conceal the fact that he 
was a consummate actor. Robert, while he quaffed his really ex- 
quisite champagne, never dreamed for an instant that he was being 
played with like a stupid Chubb with a hook in his mouth. Nor, 
indeed, was the hook painful, neither was the rod or the line visi- 
ble. The judge, over his sparkling fluid, energized to be agreeable, 
developed a laush, and became almost graphic in sdhie of his de- 
scriptions of buffalo-hunting. Thus Robert, within a short half 
hour, became melamorphosed from gloom into joviality; and when 
Dolopy and St. Vincent entered the saloon of Burlbec’s Hotel, each 
with the semblance of a forced laugh, he was caught grinning. 

“ Why, certainly,” cried Judae Potterer before any one could 
utter, “ here’s^a Britisher " — pointing with a sort of grim smile at 
Robert — “ who can’t take a joke. lou will not believe me. Cap- 
tain Dolopy, when 1 tell you, sir, that Mr. Robert Marrnyon act- 
ually brought himself to believe that when you signed his name 
across that bill you meant it!" 

“That’s ffood!" gasped Dolopy, again hatching up an inane 
cackle. “ Eh, Horace, what do you think?" 

“ Think!" laughed that gentleman. “ Upon my honor, the idea 
surpasses thought. It’s downright transcendental. Why, my good 
Marrnyon, you never mean to tell me that you imagined our friend 
Dolopy was going to commit forgery?” 

Robert, under the lubricous influence of champagne, could only 
smile sillily. “ 1 don’t know," he said, weakly." 

“ And what brought you here?” inquired Horace. “ Why, we’re 
all of us just off to Long Camp! Dolopy is going to collect his 
sack of samples and then to return home. Isn’t that the programme, 
Dol, old man?" 

“And you and 1," observed Robert, “ are to travel onward?" / 

“Yes." 

“ But what about the funds— the necessary money?" 

Horace reddened, as he replied, evasively, “ Oh, that’s all right." 

“ Indeed?" hiccoughed Robert, wdth the same silly, champagney 
soit of smile enfeebling his expression. 

“ Of course, man. If more coin is required, 1 draw on ISir Robert. 
That’s good enough, isn’t it?" 

“ But 1 fancied he’d given you enough to last out all through— as 
much as he meant to give.” 


234 


Uls’-DER WHICH KIHG? 

“ Shut up, you stupid, suspicious idiot!” cried Horace, chafflly, 
patting him at the same time affectionately on the back. “ IMow, do 
you suppose 1 don’t know my business? It Sir llobert objects to 
my drawing on him, depend upon it 1 shall hear about it quick 
enough.” 

Then they all laughed long and low, for Robert had no answer to 
give, and looked all the more foolish because ot the stupefying effect 
of the champagne. 

They were all four seated at a table in the large bay-window ot the * 
saloon facing the street; and as Robert found himself unexpectedly 
an object of derision, and was also in that soit ot puzzled-brain 
state which is the outcome ot one glass too much ot sparkling wine, 
he leaned out ot the window, partially turning his back on his com- 
panions. 

As he did so, a tallish, powerful-looking fellow on the opposite 
side of the street, paused, stared, walked a little way on, turned 
round, walked back again, and all the while kept his eye fixed on 
Robert, who, to be truthful, had his orbits focused on nothing. 

” Have a cigar, Marniyon?” said Captain Dolopy, touching his 
elbow, and causing him to start. 

” Yes. Th— thank you. I’ll smoke. It does one a power of good 
in this warm climate.” And he bit oft the end ot the weed, and 
began hunting in his pockets for a light — to no purpose, apparently. 

As he performed this maneuver, the letter with the Marmyon 
postmark tell on the table. Then, nervous in an instant lest it should 
attract the eye ot the others, he clutched at it roughly, and as he did 
so a little yellow flower dropped in fi’ont ot him. He picked it up 
in amazement, holding it to the light. It was an English primrose! 

In an instant an occult influence seemed to steady his brain. He 
was no longer semi-intoxicated, so far as intelligence tvent. And as 
he glanced at his three companions, and more particularly at the 
mask-like visage ot Horace, half Adonis, halt Bacchanal, it oc- 
curred to him that the warning might have come ti'om one still very 
dear to him, and that it might be one of those storm signals which 
can only be ignored at the gravest risk. 

In the interim, the stranger, the big fellow across the road, had 
loated slowly and indifferently into the drinking-bar of the Burlbec 
Hotel, and had collared the negresque Mercury thereof by the 
metaphorical button- hole. 

” Me bhoy, d’ye torgit yer ould chum? Bedad, thin, Oi think 
ye do. Oi’m althercd, sure, since we last met. But tor look, me 
bhoy, here’s a matther ot a half-dollar, sure, and it’s mesilf will be 
asking ot ye a throifle of a favor in retornin.” 

‘‘ Yas, sare,” responded the nigger, clutching the coin. 

” There’s a lot of gintlemin in a whisper—" rale foine gintle- 
min, in the saloon. They’re siltin’, sure, and takin’ their aise, wid 
a bottle of the bist in their stomachs, sure. Now, me dear bhoy, 
it’s mesilf is plaguy anxious to ascertain if won of thim telleys is 
called by the name ot Mormyon?” 

"Yas, sare. He am.” 

" Do ye mane it, now, ye black divil?” 

"Yas, sare. Massa Marmyon. Letter coflie tor him to-day. Yas, 
Sara” 


raDER which’ inuG? 235 

** And Mistlier Mormyon’s stoppin’ now in this hotel?” 

” Yas, sare. No, sure. He go 'way with Judge Potterer, and 
the Oder inassas. Right away, sare, soon.” 

” Eh, what? Till me now, ye black— Oi mane, sure, only me 
tongue’s a way of disremimberiu’ itself, sure, me dear bhoy. Till 
me now h’where’st they are going to, Chicago, now, perhaps? Or 
maybe 'tis Balthimore, or Hong Kong, for the matther of that?” 

‘‘Yes, sare. They go, sare, to Long Camp.” 

” Oi’ni aytornally obloiged. A wink sure’s as good as a nod! 
Long Camp's away among the moiners, and them Ooirish moiners 
fs moy porticilar friends. It’s mesilf, ye black divil, that's portial 
entirely to goulcl— pervoided always that Oi’ve not the throuble of 
aiming it by hord labor, sure. Herd labor, bedad, is not shuited 
to thespicial talents of a gintleraan, and Oi’ll have ye t’ understand, 
sorr, that if Oi’m a Raj^publican, and an advocate of ayqual’ty in 
the stup’d ould counthree over the say, Oi’m a downroight gintle- 
min in the Unoited States. Good clay to ye. Sambo, and ye’ll know 
me again another toime by token ot the half dollar Oi put between 
yer two fingers.” 

W ith that this big fellow with the broad Irisli brogue departed, 
not, however, before he had indulged in another prolonged stare at 
the saloon window. Robert, however, had changed his position. 
He was sitting in silence, smoking and thinking, while Horace was 
apparently narrating some sort ot racy anecdote that caused I)ol- 
opy to roar and Judge Potterer to relax into a smile. 

A few minutes later the bell sounded for a second edition of the 
champagne, hypothetically imported from the vineyards of Epernay, 
and in response thereunto the colored Mercury entered, rather in- 
flated with self-importance. 

‘‘ Have you seen the gentleman?” he asked of Robert. 

‘‘Ell— what? 1 don’t understand. What gentleman, please?” 

‘‘ Well, sare, a gentlepian came ten minutes ago, and inquire for 
Massa Marmyon. Yes, sare.” 

‘‘Was his name Benito?” 

The waiter shook his head. He knew ‘‘ Billy ” by heart. 

‘‘ Or Frayney — Pat Frayney ot Long Camp?” 

Again the niggei’s cranium wagged negatively. 

” Then,” said Robert, ” 1 can’t conceive who it is. You are cer- 
tain he inquired after Mr. Marmyon?” 

‘‘ Cartain, sare. Irish gentleman, sare.” 

Robert relapsed. This was too enigmatical, quite, nor was the 
mystery explained when Horace took up the ball, and pestered the 
nigger with questions. All that could be got out of the fellow was, 
that the inquirer was a stranger to him, and a very nice man. 

• ” Wall,” remarked Judge "Potterer, as the ebony Mercury retired, 
‘‘ I guess the mysterious stranger has greased the palm of that nig- 
ger’s paw pretty slick. When a man asks a question of a nigger, 
and that nigger calls him nice, 'tis a half dollar; you bet.” 

And the judge was right, as we know. 


I UNDER WHICH KING? 


m 


CHAPTEK XXXIV. 

LONG CAMP AT LOGGERITEADS. 

The scene is the diinkinf^-bar ot the store at Long Camp. The 
time midnight. The bar has been all the evening crowded with 
; miners, but nearly all have left. There remain, however, at either 
end, apart from each other, two small knots ot men, each apparently 
indulging in a sort of confidential palaver, tor their heads arfe 
turned toward a common center in either group, and each center 
seems lo be endowed with no mean authority, to act less in the 
capheily of chairman, speaker, or delegate than of absolute autocrat. 

One of the centers, needless perhaps to add, is Mr. Billy Benito, 
the other Mr. Patrick Frayney. 

The murmur ot tongues proceeded for some time, waxing louder 
and louder, especially among the loquacious and irritable men who 
were gathered round Pat Frayney. At last, however, these fellows 
seemed to have arrived at some sort of programme, for Pat severing 
himself from them called out aloud, as he walked half-way toward 
the opposite group, “ Misther Benito, Oi’ll ask tire favor of a worrud 
wid you, sorr, av’ ye plaze.” 

Billy Benito was talking on stiU in a sort of undertone to his com- 
rades. But as the grating noise ot the Irish brogue fell on his ears, 
he turned his head over his shoulder, and glancing at Frayney re- 
sponded, “ 1 will join you, sir, in halt a minute.” Then he contin- 
ued his chatter. 

Mr. Frayney looked round upon his compatriots, who stood in 
the distance ^cowding, but he waited a long minute in silence. Then 
he said, though in a lower tone, but with marked emphasis, ” It’s 
now or nivir, be jabers, Misther Benito!” 

Billy Benito smiled rather insolently. Then he remarked, in a 
loud stage aside, “ The chap’s in a ’tarnal hurry,” and slowly ad- 
vanced toward him. 

” Oi’m requisted, sorr, by me friends and compatriots to state, 
sorr, that they are not prepared, sorr, to indure any longer their 
wrongful exclusion, sorr, from the Popsy placer. If, sorr, y’are 
willin’ to mate us on fair teirums, the matther may be settled, sure, 
agrayably to all parties— -and we’d loiketo know, sorr, w’wTiether the 
m Diners ot this location is thus disposed, sorr, to mate the Oirish 
gintlemin half-wayv” 

“ Wall, sir,” answered Benito, “you are proposing a conun- 
drum for my solution that 1 can’t answer right away. Oui people, 
sir, claim the Popsy set as theirs by right of priority. We w'ere 
located on these placers, sir, before 3mur people emigrated from 
your own country to this location, and we are not prepared, sir, to 
admit to our diggings any strangers but such as are acceptable to 
our people. We should have admitted the Irish, if they had made 
themselves acceptable; but as you aie aware, they did not elect to 
do that same.” 

‘‘ Oi am aware, son, of the corcomstances that have occurred, and 
also, soiT, that the fault was not all on w’-on soide, and Oi’m willin’. 


rXDER WHICH KTKG? 

Morr, to engage on behalf of the gintlemin whom Oi have the honor 
to represint, that if j'ou’ll mate them fair and square, they’ll mate 
you ayqual intoirely.” 

“Guess,” remarked Benito, sullenly, “we’ve 'mated’ with the 
Irish once too often. Guess we would prefer, sir, for your people 
to inhabit one continent and our people the other. With the Atlan- 
tic Ocean to separate us we can ‘ mate ’ comfortably.” 

“ Oi did not say mate,” rejoined Frayney, reddening angrily at 
the other's play of words. “ Oi said male, sure!” 

“ Then,” said Benito, grinning, “ I’m not disposed either to mate 
with you, or to mate you — whichever you like. You bet.” 

“ Holy Moses, thin!” hissed Frayney, foaming at the mouth — 
" bhut il’syersilf may live to repint them worruds, Mr. Benito. Oi’m 
insthructed by my friends ” — pointing to the angry faces of the knot 
of Irishmen — “ to offer what ye may call an oltimatim. It’s this 
sorr. Fair play for Oireland, or foul play for revinge. AYe worruk 
wid ye, sorr, as brothers, or, be this and be that, nobody shall worruk 
at all, at all, for we’ll blow up the moine, as sure as yer name’s 
Benito. We’re sworn to’t, iv’ry man jack of us, sorr.” 

“ Y’ou are, are you? Then, Mr. Frayney, as the mouthpiece of 
the Y’ankees in this location, it is my duty to inform you, sir, that 
the very first act of violence performed on our ground by any one 
of your gang will be met with the punishment it deserves. Don’t 
imagine we shall trouble to hunt about for the principals in any out- 
rage. We shall not do so, sir. We shall treat every Irishman in 
this location as a principal, and settle with them accordingly. Y’ou 
have, sir, done me the honor of conveying a threat from the men 
you represent. Favor me, sir, in return bj’’ conveying to your friends 
there my words of warning. 1 wish 3^011 good-niglit, Mr. Frayney.” 

They say that the language of European diplomacy is, in accord- 
ance with the dictum attributed to Talle3Taud, an admirable vehicle 
for concealing thought. The diplomatic diction of Long Camp was 
perhaps less carefully wrapped up, but it was, at all events on the 
part of the embassador of the Y’ankees, by no means laclgng in the 
quality of cutting culture. He walked leisurely back to his com- 
rades," who laughed low and sneeringly at his recital of the Irish 
delegate’s menace, while Pat Fra^mey’s compatriots, when they 
learned that their overtures were rejected, shook hands all round' 
to the muttered curse of “ Blood!” 

At that moment, however, a big man stalked into the drinking 
booth, nodded carelessly to Benito, and with a loud laugh advanced 
tow'ard Frayney. - ’ 

“ Mike Conolly!” was the cry from the Irishmen. 

“ The same, me dear bhoj's. And h’wat’s in the wind now'? 
Sure the phiz of iv’ry divil in the place looks as black as a coal-pit. 
Arrah, bhoys, spake up. will ye? Is’t the yedy faver?” 

In a dozen words Frayney explained the situation. 

Mike Conoll.y looked grave for an instant, then the merry twinkle 
returned to his tigerish eyes, and he strode down the booth right up 
to Benito. 

“ Billee, me ould friend,” he cried, shaking him fiercely by the 
hand, “ will ye have a dthrink now'? And 3'our mates here, bedad, 
they’ll join us. It’s toime for good little bhoys to be in bed, but 


238 UNDER WHICH KING?, 

’twill nivir do, sure, for tRim smallcrajdurcstoretoireto the arnims 
of jMoiphy widout a noightcap.” 

At Mdiidi sally there was a general laugh, and Mike’s offer of 
drink, mahjre his brogue, which sounded inimical, and his intimacy 
with Frayney, was accepted cheertully all round by the Yankees. 

“ Now, Benito,” he pleaded, ” don’t be loo rough on them coun- 
thrymen of moine. They mane well, but, bedad, they’ve a habit 
now of expressin’ their maning so as to deludther a Sassenach into 
the belate that they mane t’other thing. But they don’t.” 

” They have an idea,” rejoined Benito, “ of blowing up the mine. 
Cac’late that idea must not root.” 

” A-whish. It’s nonsense 3'’e’re talkin’! They couldn’t mane that 
way. It’s onpossible altogithir; or if they did mane it, ’tis the 
drink’s in their heads, sure, and they’ll slape it off. Ye’ll let me 
till them now, Benito dear, that ye’ll be happy to listen to h’ what 
they wish to say to-morrow mornin’, sure?” 

Benito laughed. 

” Yes,” he replied, ” you may tell them as much as that — only — ” 

But before the words were out of his mouth Mike had tiaversed 
the intervening space between the two antagonistic knots of men, and 
had addressed himself earnestly to Frayney. There seemed to 
Benito’s eye to be some sort of objection raised to Mike’s amateur 
diplomacy, but the big fellow shouted at the men, and must have 
convinced them, for they one and all burst out laughing, and then 
Conolly returned to the grog he had left on the counter. ' 

” There,” exclaimed he, “ 1 tould ye so! Thim fellys air as good 
as gould, but bedad for all that there’s been the risk of murther and 
dynamoite, and a divil of a lot of mischief. Ye may trust me to put 
it all right and square, me dear bhoys, pervoided as ye’ll be a bit 
raysonable.” 

However, cadis eumfccce siccatis, the liquor being lioored, the com- 
pany present thought it advisable to retire, and one by one with a 
brief nod issued forth from the atmosphere of tobacco and spirits 
into the silvern moonlight of the glorious South— a scene of en- 
chantment utterly wasted on human beings both devoid of one spark 
of poetry and replete with the lowest intuitions of brutality. 

There chanced, however, that night to be one individual in Long 
Camp endowed by nature with something of the poetic spirit— a man 
at all events who had cultivated beauty as the one chief good. It 
was unfortunate that this same beauty-worshiper entertained a 
positive repugnance for truth. The man who shuddered at consecu- 
tive fifths, or an Inharmonious sequence of colors, or the faulty 
emphasis of a single-syllable in an idyll or a lyric, was, by a strange 
iraradox, incapable of distinguishing discords in action, or in senti- 
ment, or in motive. In art he hated a lie; in ethics he loved it. In 
art he was a purist; in morality perversel}’^ lubricous. Crime in- 
deed itself possessed a certain fascination for his nature, while re- 
ligion he not merely laughed at but loathed. 

This strange compound, at once dreamy and romantic below the 
surface, and flippant and cynical above-board, could not resist the 
fascination of a moonlit night. Hence, while Dolopy snored, and 
♦ludge Potterer, it mny be presumed, dreamed of mining swindles, 
he wandered forth into the night with a cigar for his only gompanion, 


UNDER WHICH KING?^ 239; 

His thoughts must have, turned to Icla*Frankalmoign, for her 
name rose involuntarily to his lips, when a biggish human figure 
came between his wanderinu; eye and the dazzling moon. 

“Halloor’ 

“ Big porrdon, sorr. No offince, sorr. If I’m not mistook, soit, 
Oi’ve the honor of addthiessin’ one of the friends of Misther 
jMormyon, sorr.” 

“ Yes. And. who are you?” 

” Bedad thin, and who are you? 1 ask sorr, becase, ye see, 
Misther Mormyon and mesilf, sorr, we indolged in a sloight differ- 
ence, sorr, and it’s mesiit that had the misfortin’ to black his eyes 
for ’um.” 

” W hat,” whispered Horace, “ you’re never a man called Conolly, 
are you?” 

” That’s me, sorr, and very much at your sarvice, sorr.” 

‘‘ But how did you come here?” 

” That’s tellin’. The loiner, sure, brought me from Liverpool to 
New York, atther Oi’d had jist a taste a"’ jVlaidstone Jail, and for 
that same ye may be sure Oi don’t thank Misther Mormyon.” 

‘‘ You know all about Marmyon?” 

” 1 do. His name was Hodge, sure, till the fates changed it to 
Mormyon. A-whishl 1 owes him one!” 

‘‘ Ah! Y’ou owe him one. Then why don’t you pay your debts? 
If 1 were in your shoes, 1 should give at least two for one, and I’m 
not your size.” 

” Maybe 1 will, maybe 1 won’t. Maybe Oi’ll fiddle the felly first 
and towel him afterward.” 

“ Pshaw! If you want j'our revenge, kill two birds with one 
stone. There’s more to be made, perhaps, by potting that fellow 
than by fiddling him— if you only knew as much, my friend Conolly !” 

Mike farly started at this avowal. “ But,” said he in'a low tone, 

” O’m the felly’s inemy, you’re his friend.” 

“ "Who told you that? I’m the friend of Errol Marmyon, the next 
heir to that big estate, and if by any unforseen chance this animal, 
who has spited you, should be removed — don’t you know — 1 can 
calculate on—” 

” A pile of gould, Oi’ll be forsworn! And am I to onderstand, 
sorr, that ye’d share the pile wid a convanient friend as helped the 
young divil across the bridge betwain toime and t’other place?” 

” You’d better take that for granted. Errol Marmyon is bound 
to me, and I’ll be bound to you. But as you know, there can be 
neither a spoken nor a written bond. In a case of this sort, every 
man must safeguard himself. All I can pledge my word is, that if 
Errol should not keep faith with me, it will be the w^orse for him, 
and if 1 do not keep faith wdth you it would be the worse for me. 

1 can not go beyond that, but 1 am on the square.” 

” Praycoisely. And Oi’ll take yer worrud.” 

“ Good. Then listen to me. This donkey of a fellow Marmyon 
— or Hodge, -as he might more properly be termed, tor he is Hodge 
by manners and in sentiments — this fellow, 1 say, has taken to hob- 
nobbing with a lot of Irish ruff — By the bye, you’re Irish, 1 sup- 
]iosc, so I won’t call them ruffians. Anyhow, there’s a sort of 
dead-lock between the Irish and the Yankees of Long Camp. The 


340 


UNDEll WHICH Kli^G? 


Irish, so I hear, intend to blow up the mine, andtif so the Yankees 
mean to blow up the Irish. 1 should fancy that this fellow’s med* 
dling in what doesn’t concern him ought to lead him into this quar- 
rel, and that there need be no necessity why he should come out 
of it.” 

” H’which soide does he take — Oirish or Yankee?’' 

” He’s identified himself with a person named Frayney, who is 
doomed, so Judge Potterer tells me, and the judge knows all this 
by-play by heart. ” 

” Thin he’s Oirish. Oi'ni-sorry for that, 1 am. Y'et perhaps it’s 
as well. There’ll be mischief betwane the two porties, son, betoie 
that moon rayappears on the woiruld agin.” » 

” I should advise you, friend Conolly, to have a care for your skin. 
The Irish are outnumbered, and must come oft second beU.” 

” Thrue for you, sorr, and Oi’m obloiged for the advoice. It's 
mesilf is prepared to make the nicissary arrangements, ami h’when 
the businiss is roipe for action, to thrack roight away, sorr. Fray- 
ney, sorr, is me dearest friend.” 

” Good. Then, Mr. Conolly, 1 wish you all success, and remem- 
ber this, if things go right, and Mr. Errol Mai my on is indisputably 
the heir to the family estates, 1 am your debtor.” ^ 

‘‘ And your name, sir?” 

Horace paused. Should he reveal his identity? 

There were no witnesses to this Ute-a-tke conversation. That 
silver moon overhead was not a tale-bearer, but if this big bully 
found out later on that he had given a false name it might lead to 
painful complications. So he replied, indiflerently, ” My name is 
Horace St. Vincent. I am a cousin of Lady Marm^^on. Again, 
good-night,, and good fortune for us both.” 

” The same to you, sorr, and many of ’em,” echoed Mike, with 
Hibernian irrelevance. 

As soon as Horace had strolled away the Irish adventurer, who 
was ready for any deviltry, however diabolical, walked quickly to 
Frayney's cabin. It w^as yerging on the small hours, but that able 
specimen of the dangerous classes had not retired to roost— in tact, 
he was closeted with two of his colleagues in close conference. The 
trio meant mischief, and were concerting measures in order to carry 
into ex^ulion the threatened project of blowing up the mine. 

“ "Who’s that? Spake, or Oi foirel” 

‘‘ Hush. Moike Conolly, sure. Lit me in, dear!” 

The bolt was drawm back, and Mike faced his congeners and fel- 
low-conspirators— as one of them. 

The tribal instinct of the Irish is proverbial. These descendants 
of the ancient Celts will hang together like leeches on a horse, and it 
signifies to them less than little whether the euierpri.se on which they 
happen to be bound is right or wrong, honorable or dishonorable. 
The quarrel being m essence Irish that" is enough, and w^helher they 
are aftected personally, or others only of their race, seems to bequite 
beside the mark. They cannot amalgamate with humanity. Not 
only in England and in the colonies, but to an even greater extent 
in the United Btates, these sons of Erin are alone, as separate a peo- 
ple as the Jews. And woe betide those who cross their path! With 
all who do not run against their angles they can somehow exist; 


J UNDER WHICH KING? 24X 

with those who offend them in (he least particular they can find no 
modus vivendt. It might be supposed, trom the language emploj^d 
by their own agitators, that they would find a congenial home be- 
neath the shadow of the star-spangled banner, under the purely 
democratic institutions of free Ainericu. This is not the case. As 
in Lonjr Camp, so also throughout the lenirth and breadth of the 
United States, the Irish, for some inscrutable reason, occupy an 
isolated position, and one more or less antagonistic to the rest of the 
community. Individually more often than not acceptable for their 
geniality and light heartedness, they form collectively one of the 
chief and most difllcult problems of modern America. In Long 
Camp we see them at their worst, for they represent, perhaps, the 
lowest type of the American Irish, men who are in essence rowdy, and 
at issue with others almost, if not quite, as rowdy as themselves. 

Moreover here— for once let it be said in their history — they have 
on their. side the semblance of right. The Yankees in the first in» 
stance admitted them to work on their placer. They might have 
kept them aloof, but they neglected this precaution, and having 
once admitted them, ought perhaps to have tolerated their presence. 
At all events it came to this, that when a quarrel between an indi- 
vidual Y^ankee and an individual Irishman led to a rupture between 
those two, the Irish by siding with their compatriot, w'ho happened 
to be in the WTong, exasperated the Yankees, who forthwith pro- 
ceeded to boycott the entire Irish contingent. The merits of the 
dispute, therefore, between the Yankees and Irish were pretty evenly 
balanced, but the latter certainly had reason to affirm that they suf- 
fered on account of their nationality, as indeed they did ; perhaps, 
because their nationality had made itself party to a quarrel in a 
wrongful cause. 

Pat Frayney, Mike Conolly, and the rest were soon in deep dis- 
cussion as to the safest way of carrying out their intention of blow- 
ing up the mine and inflicting injury thereby all round. Mike took 
a very w’arm interest in the business, and afforded them the aid of a 
matured judgment plus the ready wit of a restless adventurer. The 
Yankees, he reminded them, had ‘been forewarned, and would 
doubtless be forearmed. They would take some pains to intercept 
any attempt; and, further, it would be advisable to act with cau- 
tion, for the simple reason that the attempt would be regarded almost 
as much a commencement of hostilities as success itself, and might 
be resented fiercely. In the States, it may be remarked, there is 
never much trouble in procuring a suspension of Habeas Corpus. A 
wire from Judge Potterer that “ the citizens were in danger " would 
evoke the wire in reply from authority at the White House, “ Pro- 
tect your citizens;’* in other words, “ use your revolvers.” 

‘‘ Me buoys,” said Mike, ” it moight be advoisible to blow up the 
moine at a moment, sure, when thim divils, the Y"aukees, is at- 
worruk. That w'ay ye’d make safe of not havin’ a swarrum of ’um 
upon yez till ye could make convauient thracks, sure!” 

‘‘ Ay, ay,” echoed Pat Frayney. ” Thrue for you, Moike, dearl 
VYe’ll note that same. They’ll uivir expect us to have the owdacity 
to blaze the whole caboose wid the hands about her. Be the holy 
Moses, Mick, but the mother as bore >ou must have been a foin& 
woman mtoirely. ” ^ 


242 UNDER WHICH KING? 

“ And further,” remarked Mike, “ I’ll give yez a bit of advoice. 
Ye know that spalpeen IMormyon? Well, lie is the heir-f.t-law to a 
divil of a big propertliy in the ould counthry, with a barnetc}?’ to 
boot. The Yankees knows all about that, and they won’t hurt a 
hair ot the haste’s head. Intoice the felly to go wid you, and kape 
Tim wilt you. Sure he’ll be as good as an insurance policee agin 
bullets.” 

” Roight agin!” shouted Pat Frayney. ‘‘ Sure that bhoy Morm- 
yon’s loike me own brother, and though he may be a Sassenach, his 
hort, sure, js wid us in this business! Leastways, in the roights ot 
our demand, lor divil a bit would he consint fo blowin’ up a moine. 
The felly’s romantic and all that, and would have thried to bully 
Benito wid argytying, if I’d let ’im. But we’ll kape ’um wid uz, 
and then, be jabers, if the revolvers is dthrawn, and the bullets 
begins to floy^ wee’ll put ’um to the front, sure.” 

” Agreed, agreed!” cried the others, and so by a single word of 
Mike Conolly a plot was formed ot a character very perilous to the 
safety of an innocent and romantically benevolent man. Mike 
alone, however, knew the full nature of the risk, and he had in- 
w’ardly registered a resolve to render it so enormous that the chances 
of Robert escaping w^ere almost ml. 

” At noon to-morrow, thin!” were Frayney ’s last words, as Mike 
passed forth into the night. “ At noon, plaze the pigs, we’ll blow 
the moine and the tarnation Y^'ankees skoy hoy. It’s altogither a 
great oidea. Eh, Moike?” 

“ Bedad, yes. As. big as an oidea can be till it’s written in the 
page of histhory. Here’s luck and long life to ye, Frayney dear, 
and to all the bho3’S, wdiLa prayer for ould Oireland.” 

And w'ith that benediction the man ot reckless red-ruin went 
away to sleep, as though life' and death were the merest trifles. 


CHAFTJIR XXXV. 

“as A SHEEP TO THE SLAUGHTER.” 

Mr. Horace St. Vincent belonged to that influential order of 
society which inverts the aphorism ” Early to bed, and early to 
rise.” His habit w'as to retire to roost unwillingly, indeed with an 
excess of procrastination, and to rise rather more unreadily and 
procrastinating! y. In this particular his habits were the precise op- 
posite of those ot Judge Potterer, who invariably welcomed the early 
morning sun, even when the claims of festivity had kept him awake 
to the verge of the small hours. Whethei^^ he went to bed with the 
sun or not, he always rose with it. Consequently, while Horace 
slept — we will not call it quite the sleep of the just — the judge was 
taking his walks abroad to some purpose, as we shall see. 

First he knocked up Billy Benito, with whom he seemed to be on 
terms of perfect accord. Their confabulation lasted perhaps a short 
half hour; after which he returned to Ids own quarters, and awoke 
Robert, who, since he had resumeti externally amicable relations 
with Horace St. Vincent, had quitted the shelter ot Pat Frayney’s 
hospitable roof, and returned to his quarters with the judge. 


UNDER WHICH KINCt? 243 

Robert needed no second call, but \^as out and about with due 
celerity, and responded readily lo the judge’s request lor a short 
stroll before breakfast, Iry way of an appetizer. 

“ ]\lr. Marmyon,” remarked Judge PoUerer, with half-closed eye- 
lids, as though the matter was one of utter indifference to him per- 
sonally, “ there is a storm brewing on the mine. It will burst to- 
da}’-— you bet— over somebody’s head.” 

“ 1 know all about it, more than you do,” replied Robert, rather 
vaingloriously. ‘‘ These fine fellows are my mates in a certain 
sense. Well, sir. I'm sorry to hear it.” 

” That is so, Mr. Marm 3 ’'on, and that tod is the reason why I w^as 
anxious to collogue with you — some.” 

” Right you are, judge, I’m all attention. This concerns me. ” 

“You bet, Mr. IMarmyon. Then listen. It, sir, there were two 
regiments of artillery drawn up in array against each other, and 
pounding away kerslap, would you prefer, sir, as a man of com- 
mon-sense, to occupy the central position between these two regi- 
ments?” 

“ I see what you mean,” answered Robert. 

“ Then, Mr. ^Marmyon, what may be your line to-day?” 

Robert looked rather staggered by this direct question. 

“Because,” continued the judge, with inimitable coolness, “as 
far as 1 can see ahead, there ain’t an almighty big chance of you’re 
being an e 3 m-witness of this time to-morrow morning.” 

“ Do 1 understand you that between two fires 1 am pretty certain 
to fall?” 

“ 1 leave that to your common -sense, Mr. Marmyon. But 1 may 
tell you, sir, what your common-sense has hitherto omitted to in- 
struct you, that a bullet in your gullet would gratify some— at least 
one gentleman of our acquaintance — a gentleman, sir, who has been 
colloguing with the next heir to the estate of Marmyon Court, Eng- 
land, 1 reckon. ” 

Robert started as though he had been shot. Never once had he 
guessed this-, and the suggestion sent his head whirling with half a 
liundred ideas. The illiterate and illegible w^arning from Marmyon 
Court was evidently not penned in vain. And yet, was it possible 
that Sir Robert could be so unutterably base as to strive to comi)ass 
his eldest son’s destruction? On the spur of the moment he almost 
persuaded himself that such might be the case, jet in another in- 
stant indignantly rejected the suspicion as unworthy of himself. 

“ You seem surprised,” remarked the judge, drj^. 

“ Y'es,” gasped Robert, “I am at oiice enlightened and aston- 
ished. Surely wealth is a curse!” 

“ Why, cert’nly, to the ’coon that -hasn’t got it. But come, Mr. 
Marmyon, 1 did not wake j^oii up before your time in order to 
philosophize. 1 am your friend, sir, and shall be consarned to prove 
that statement in a practical manner. Halt- front, sir, and atfend 
to me! St. Vincent hasn’t a darned dime left. He spec'lated Sir 
Robert’s dollars at baccarat, and lost every cent, and 1 tell yf)u fliis, 
sir, he can’t bring you back safe to your country. One way or 
the other, by accident or on purpose, jmu must clear off, or he’ll 
sink to almighty smash. 1 warned you a week ago to bitch off, and 
slip away. That warning 1 now repeat, sir, and to show I’m in 


244 rNDEK WHTCH KTXG? 

fair airnest, here’s a pile which }ou can loan of me, on terms, sir,^’ 
and he pulled out a roll of paper. 

“ Lpon my honor, I’m grateful, Judge. But, stop, let me review 
the situation. If 1 interfere between Frayney and Benito, I shall 
do no good, but .«ihall lose m}' life in all likelihood.” 

‘‘You will do no good, you bet, and you will lose your life— for 
sartin, Mr. Marmyon.” 

‘‘ And if 1 continue to travel with Horace St. Vincent 1 run quite 
as great a risk. ” 

•‘ You run the almightiestriskof sudden death; besides, there isn’t 
a cent to travel with.” 

*‘ And 1 am to believe that my own flesh and blood desires my 
sudden death?” 

‘‘ That is so, sir .They mean it~some of ’em.” ^ 

” Then, judge, done with youl I’ll accept your terms whatever 
they are — provided that they don’t involve either of lis in di.shonor, 
and answer to my notions of squareness. ” 

' The judge smiled in his own strange, sardonic fashion. His was 
not the smile of spontaneous pleasure, the sparkle on the sunlit rip- 
’ pie of life, but a sort of giim, cfark expression of gratification at 
getting the best of a bargain.” 

‘‘ Wall, sir,” he said, squinting at the young man as one who 
feels his way — “ wall, sir, 1 guess my terms may sound stiff to your 
ears, because you’ic not accustomed to the business. arrangements of 
a free country. But they are mine, sir, and not youis, and you may 
take them or leave them. 1 hold in my hand, sir, one thousand 
i?: dollars of good American money. That sum may purchase your 
^ liberty and your life. You ought, Mr. Marmyon, to pay an almighty 
lump for either; and, sir, the half of your reversion for both would 
be dirt cheap. But I am not a Shylock. 1 would not take an un- 
fair advantage of the necessities of a gentleman. 1 might, sir, de- 
mand your bond for a big lump sum, but 1 shall not ask that. 1 am 
a moderate man, sir, and content with a moderate profit in return 
for a moderate risk. 1 will, therefore, lend you these thousand dol- 
lars at, say, fifty to one. Now, sir!” 

Ilob(jrt opened his eyes at this too disinterested proposition. 

‘‘ AVhat!” he almost gasped; ‘‘ am 1 to understand that if 1 bor- 
row your thousand dollars 1 am to enter into an engagement to pay 
you fifty thousand dollars?” 

Judge PoLterer’s face lengthened, if it be possible, and he sheltered 
himself behind a look of superlative stupidity, as though he were 
fairly puzzled. 

‘‘ No, sir,” he replied, adroitly shilling his ground. ‘‘ Y’ou do 
not apprehend my meaning. Let me explain, sir. 1 advance you 
the sum of one thousand dollars. Y’ou go and tumble over Niagara, 
or fight a duel, or get cracked up in a railway smash. Wall, sir, 
in that event my dollars go pop. Or you cross back to the old coun- 
try, agd forget all about the transaction, and then 1 have to spend 
five times th^amount to recover my money. Y’bn must consider my 
risk,f8ir, a*^ the- fact that 1 am likely to be kept out of the use of a 
sum 1 could turn over and double at least once a month. Hence, 
sir, 1 do not reckon fifty American dollars to one English sovereign 
stiff.” 


IJNDKR WHICH KING? 245 

Kobert was quick enouj 2 :b to perceive the judge’s rapid change of 
front, but he felt indisposed to further parley. Horace, on their 
landing in America, had handed him two hundred dollars for his 
own personal use; and as he had not paid away anything except in 
drinks to the miners and to Pat Frayney for his board, railway jour- 
neys and hotels having been settled by Horace, he had over a hun- 
dred dollars in his pocket, and, rather unwisely perhaps, esteemed 
himself rich enough to be indepen dj^nt. 

“ No, thank you,” he replied, curtly, “ 1 do not require a loan of 
any kind. Understand me, however, 1 am none the less grateful 
for your straight tip, sir, and if ever 1 come into my inheritance 1 
shall made a point of recompensing you— perhaps beyond your ex- 
pectations.” 

” Wall, sir,” muttered Judge Potteier, expectorating angrily, 
“you must take your own couiso. I should much prefer, sir, to 
keep my dollars in my pocket— some; but L was willing to assist you 
as a matter of business. You have, sir, in the exercise of your dis- 
cretion, declined my offer, and you will understand that it is with- 
drawn anu will not be renewed.” 

“ 1 don’t wish it to be,” retorted Kobert, haughtily. 

“ You bet. That is not, however, the last word between us. We 
are strangers, Mr. MSl’myon, you and 1; and 1, as a stranger, have 
communicated in confidence to you some valuable information. You 
will have to recoup me for that, sir.” 

“ Recoup you? It cost you nothing to speak out.” 

The judge stared steadily at the gi-ound, and remained meditative 
— uglily so. 

“ What do.you w^ant then?” demanded Robert, curtly. 

” Perhaps, sir, being an American citizen, and unaccustomed to 
the dialect of London, England, 1 have not expressed myself clear- 
l 3 ^ You are not aware of it, but your position here among these 
miners is one of peril to yourself. You have mated with either 
side. Let one or the other suspect you, sir, of playing Jiulas, and 
you’ll be settled, sir, slick off the reel. Our people don’t stop to 
argyfy.” 

‘‘Yes. Possibly — albeit 1 think you’re wrong; but anyhow, what 
on earth has my relation with these miners to do with Judge Pot- 
terer?” 

'Ihe judge again expectorated freely, closed one ej^e, and re- 
sponded, ‘‘"You bet.” 

Now of all inane formula3 this one is perhaps the most trying to 
the patience of your exasperated Briton; and Robert just now was 
waxing irritable. He muttered, angrily, ” Bosh!” and w^as about to 
turn on his heel when the judge added, with cool indifference, 
” I’m going to interview Benito, 1 guess, before breakfast. That is 
if 1 am to understand it’s off.” 

“ What’s Off?” 

‘‘ Our ne-gotiat!on, Mr. Marmyon, I’m referring to.” 

” It isn’t on yet, because you haven’t stated your wishes.” 

” Wall, if that’s it, I’ll be almighty stiaight. Your bond, sir, for 
ten thousand dollais is the consideration 1 shall require in return 
for my information— and dirt cheap, too, if you value your tarnation 
life a red cent, or else—” 


24G 


UNDER WHICH KINC? 

“ Well, sir, what is (he alternative?” 

“It’s off!” 

Ivobert reddened with anger. There stood belore him, with the 
mng jroid ot a footpad, this so-called judge of the great American 
Republic, in scarcely veiled language demancliug his money or his 
life. His answer was “ Good-morning,” as he turned upon his heel 
con tern ptuousl3^ 

He did not, however, at once return to the judge’s quarters, but 
walked some distance sharply to cool his head and consider. 

Was the judge’s information of the nature of a plant? It wore 
that appearance, and he would have hastil}’' jumped at that conclu- 
sion but for the weird corroborative evidence of that anonymous 
warning from Marmyon, and the testimony in his mind to its truth 
afforded by that little humble floweret 

He was quite undecided how to act, when by accident he met Pat 
Prayney. 

“The t’hop of the mornin’ to Misther Mormyon, sure! Arrah, 
me bhoy, this is a big day for Long Camp, and it’s mesilf entertains 
a hope that the son of Sorr Robert Mormyon vdll not daysort his 
brothers in labor, the brave Oirish lads!” 

Robert’s face was rather anxious, and he seemed in no mood to 
listen to blather, for he responded curtly, “ l am j'our friend, Pat, 
and the friend of the boys to the bitter end, so long as you keep on 
the side of right in this dispute. But if you talk about outrages, 
blow'ing up the mine, and that sort of thing, don’t ask me to back 
3mu. i could not — on principle.” 

“ Bedad, thin, dear, listen to me. ’Tis wmn thing to purtend, 
sure, that the moine’s to be sint to almoight3" smitheieens, and an- 
other, sure, intoirely to carry out that same big threat. We’re 
thrying it on, that we are, Misther Mormyon, but divil a bit do we 
mane it. Och, thin, dear, ’tis onpossible, quoite!” 

“ Oh, if that’s all,” said unsuspecting Robert, “ I’m with 3^ou. 1 
told Benito that 3'our cause was, in m3'- judgment, the right one, 
and so long as it remains so I’m bound to stand by you.” 

“ Will, thin, dear, Oi’ll tell 3^e a sacrit. There’s going, this very 
day as is, to be an attimpt made— a foul and dastardly aftimpt, sorr 
• — to dhtroive us off the location altogither. Now, we’d not be ask- 
ing 3’'ou to intherfere on our belnff, sorr, for maybe we can take 
care of oursilves; but, sorr, it Benito persavcs that 3^e’re wid us, 
he’ll have to be modtherate in his tone. So, me dear, Oi’ll be glad 
if ye'll accept a mouthful of Chicago bacon, and a dthrop of the 
craythur, and thin we'll march arrum-in-arrum to the moine, sure, 
and face the divils.” 

“Good!” cried Robert, enthusiastically. “I’m 3"our man, Pat, 
for to-day only. To-morrow 1 may be miles aw'ay from Long 
Cam]).” 

“ Bedad, thin,” replied Pat, with a grin of genuine amusement, 

“ ve don’t say so, now! It’s sorry 1 am, Misther Mormyon, to think 
o! your sudden dayqmrture. We’ll be afther losin’ the best friend 
we have.” * ' , 

The jrair walked away, as Mr. Frayneyput it, “ arrum-in-arrum,” 
and eu route lor the Irishman’s cabin, met, as luck would have it, 


OTDEE WHICH KIKG? 247 

Judge Potterer, who was returning from a second and a serious con- 
ference with Benito. 

“ Air you going to honor us with your company at breakfast, Mr. 
Maimyon?” inquired the judge, in a sort of half satirical lone, that 
harmonized with his expression of countenance. 

“ Thank you, no. I’m bound for the mine with Frayney.’* 

Judge Potterer smiled, and passed on quickly, muttering to him- 
self and almost laughing. 

Arrived at his quarters, the chief and best appointed dwelling in 
the village, the judge summoned Horace and Dolopy to a confer- 
ence. The former gentleman was much indisposed to arise after his 
prolonged midnight ramble, but obeyed the judge’s summons. The 
latter, having slept long and soundly, was soon en ecidence and in 
splendid cue. 

“ Wall,” observed the judge sotto voce over his hominy — his diges- 
tion was normally that of an ostrich — ” you may wire this evening 
to Mr. Errol Marmyou that he’s the boss in reversion of that show 
over there. Ihere are some people in this location, ^ir, who are 
what you may call foolhardy, hardy fools, 1 cal’clate, but of all the 
tools between Mexico and Manhattan, Kobert Marmyon’s the 
almighty biggest. You bet.” 

” What’s he done now?” jasked Dolopy, indiflerently. 

“ He has traveled up the mine right away with Pat Frayney,” 
observed the judge, rubbing the side of his nose. 

“You don’t mean it!” cried Horace, laying down .his knife and 
fork, and positively turning pale. “ Quern I)eus mlt 'perdere, prius 
demented!” 

“Why, cert’nly!” echoed the judge, who did not understand a 
word of Latin, but was unwilling to proclaim his ignorance. 

“ Gone to commit self-pottification,” responded Dolopy, with his 
mouth full and a merry sparkle in his eye. 

“ That,” continued Judge Potterer, smiling rather sardonically at 
Horace, who evidently was in a state of extreme agitation, and could 
neither eat nor indeed convey his fork to his month, owing to the 
unsteadiness of his hand — “ that is the first item in the programme. 
Now for the second, gentlemen. 1 have made it my business to 
ascertain precisely what is going to happen. I might stop it all, if 
I chose, but 1 don’t for two reasons. First, to oblige you gentle- 
men, I do not object that Marmyon should be put out of the way so 
easil^^ and expeditiously. Secondly, it is to jny interest to get rid 
of tliose tarnation Irish. 1 shall, therefore, lei matters slide; but I 
have wired to the White House for liberty to protect the citizens, 
and this permit allows Benito the fullest liberty of action. He will 
revolve, sir, the entire Irish colony, and 1 shall then have the gratifi- 
cation of wiring to the White House, ‘ Order restored!’ while my 
property will be sale.” 

“Ye-es!” laughed miserably Horace St. Vincent, whose teeth 
were chattering, his nerve . being of a very inferior order, as indeed 
is the case with most gentlemen of a poetic temperament who indulge 
in pegs. “ It is all beautifully arranged — beautifully, yet somehow 
now that it comes to the point, I d -don’t quite feel comfortable. 
Marmyon’s a brute and that sort of thing, but— -well, I suppose I’m 
a sentimental humbug!” 


248 UXDER WHICH KIHG?’"'' 

“ You bet,” snuffled nasally the judge. ” But, sirs, 1 must pro- 
test that we’ve nothing to do with the job. It’s no business of ours 
if Mr Robert Marmyon runs his nose into danger. 1 warned him 
—some 1 should not have done so had 1 supposed he would take 
a hint. Certainly not. 1 did not wish, however, to interrupt the har- 
mony of our breakfast-table by alluding to this gentleman, except 
as the acceptor of a certain bill, which you. Captain Dolopy, will 
take to ’Frisco to be discounted. 1 shall esteem it a favor, captain, 
it you will hold youiself in readiness to proceed keislapto 'Frisco as 
soon as the signal sounds.” 

The signal,” cried Dolopy. " What Signal, if you please? 

“ Benito tells me that the Irish have procured dynamite in large 
quantities to explode the mine. This contingency must be prevented, 
for it would spell ruin to me, and so the moment one ol these 
Hibernians, sir, is detected locating the dynamite for a felonious 
purpose, Benito will pass the Vord ‘ Protect the citizens.’ ” 

” And what then?” demanded Horace, still nervously. 

‘‘You will hear the simultaneous report of fifty revolvers, and 
Captain Dolopy can then make tracks by the fimt train for ’Frisco. 
It is important the dollars should change hands before the decease 
of the acceptor is announced by telegram.” 

“Right,” replied Dolopy. “Then let us light our cigars, and 
wait patiently for the signal. I suppose, by the bye, they won’t let 
Marmyon off?” 

“ Y'ou bet!” 

“ l_i_l think,” stammered Horace, “ that as I don’t feel quite 
w^ell. I’ll go and lie down. I’ve got rather a sick-headache, and a 
nap would set me right.” 

“ A nap?’" laughed the judge. “ Why, certainly, you’ve just 
woke out of one. "^Can you manage another nap kerslap?” 

“ 1 never travel without my patent morpheus,” was the quiet re- 
joinder. 

And so while Horace St. Vincent departed to lull his conscience 
literally to sleep, Captain Dolopy and Judge Potterer callously sat 
over their cigars to wait the death signal. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE SIG^iAL SOUNDS. 

While Judge Potterer and Captain Dolopy were thus lazily in- 
dulging in the fragrant tobacco of the Southern States, with the 
fresh morniug aii breathing its sweets upon their hard, se'ilish vis- 
ages, the man whose life was — in plain English— w'anted, trudged 
toward the placer called “ Popsy,” where all Long Camp was at 
work. 

Probably, if Robert had had the faintest inkling bf the net-work 
of cruel villainy wdierewith he w'as environed he would have taken 
to his heels and bolted for dear life. But, as we know, he believed 
Benito to be bis friend, and Frayney to be his friend, and their 
companions, whether Yankee or Irish, to be his friends. In the old 
country, if a working-man stands drinks continually, and those 
equivocal luxuries are accepted, he naturally esteems the acceptors 


trXDER WIITOH KIKO? 




as his friends. In the atmosphere of Jjong Camp they managed 
things differently. As Dean Mansel sing’s: 

“ In a free, enlightened nation, 

Who shall blame repudiation?” 

As the pair approached the placer, which was situate within gun- 
shot of the village, though the path leading to it happened to he laby- 
rinthine and circuitous, at an angle of the road they literally can- 
noned against Mike Conolly. 

Robert started back as at an apparition. 

“ Be jabers, thin,” cried Mike, advancing as a bull-dog upon an 
Italian grayhound, “ Oi did not expect to have the shupreme honor 
of malinsr Misther Marmyon. A-whish, Frayney, ’tis mesilf stands 
indibted to this gintleman for a taste of the insoide of Maidstone 
jail, and a few turruns on the thread-mill of that same. Me dear 
sorr ” — advancing close to Robert — ” h’when last we met 1 left ye 
loyin’ on the grane grass in front of yer ancistral demesne. Oi’ll be 
happy to afford ye the satis ivhaction of a gintleman right away 
li’wheniver yer pluck’s ayquil Ic the occasion, and the sooner the 

betther.” , . . , -r^ , 

“ Did 1 send you to Maidstone jail?” said Robert, in response to 

the accusation. 

” Bedad, no! But that oiild baste, Sorr Robert Mormyon did, 
and he’ll be paid for that same, as moy name’s Moike Conolly.”^ 
Robert returned the Irishman’s steady gaze. Then he replied, 
quietly ” I’m not your match, and besides there’s nothing to fight 
about'tiiat 1 know of. Last time ’Iwas my girl. Now she’s mine 
no loDo-er. 1 don’t want to interfere with you, but, as you know by 
experience, if I’m* attacked 1 can take care of m}self. . ■ ^ ^ 

“ A-whist then,” interposed Pat Frayney, ‘‘ sure nobody’s gom 
to foight at all! Mike, me dear bboy, Oi’ll have ye to know that 
Mislhei Mormyon’s won of uz. He’s moy liftinint sure this blessed 

day, and—” ■ , , , 

“ Why to-day?” asked Robert, rather sharply. 

“ To-day sure, and to-morrer sure, and for the nixt haf century. 
Arrah let’s be movin’ on, Moike, or the bhoys will be callin’ us 
traithors to the cause. Misther Mormyon, we look to you, sorr, for 
what ye may call moral support. Benito won’t dare, sorr, to ordther 
us of[ if a gintleman of your name and reputation supports us. 
Hooroo for ould Oireland ! Moike, take Misther Mormyon ’s arrum, 
and as we’re all on the job let’s be thrue friends, and bad scran to 
llie Yankees 

And so before Robert knew quite the effect of the maneuver, 
Frayney had linked one arm in his and Conolly the other, rhiis 
shoulder to shoulder they marched on the ground positively court- 
ing observation. , , . . n i 

This a^o-ressive movement, however, caused Robert to recall both 
the iudge’s warning and the presenlinient which had been evoked 
by that little primrose. Perhaps it was the latter quite as much as 
the former which induced him to mutter, hesitatingly, You give 
me your word, Frayney, that there’s no mischief biewmg to-day, no 

design upon the mine, no — ” . -k; 

” Faug^hl” rejoined Frayney, impatiently. See for yoursilf, 


250 tJNDEK WHICH KING? 

sorr. If there’s mischief, then sure the bhoys ’ud ])e in it. Now, 
soir, nse them bright oyes of your own. Look round about you and 
sec tor yoursilf. is there a son ot Erin at work on this place? Divil 
a one! We’re oidlhered off this, and the bhoys daren’t show. Ain’t 
that a thrue bill, Moike Conolly?” 

“ Thrue as howly wathcr,” rejoined Mike. 

“ Then,” said Robert, innocently, ” if the Irish are not here, what 
is Ihe good ot my coming? Benito can’t order men oft the mine 
who are not on it.” 

“Arraii, thin, it’s raysonible y’are, Misther Mormyon,” replied 
Pat. ” But Oi’ll till j^e, me dear, Oi’d have thought that the bho3^s 
’ud be here, jist to see if Benito, afther my ultimatum, ’ud turrun 
’em off. But they’re ateared, they are, poor tellys. Sure the 
Yankees carries revolvers, and is ready to handle thini things wid- 
out regoid to the personal convanience ot Oirish gintlemiu. Moike, 
darlint” — turning suddenly to Conolly — ” h'wliat will we do? Could 
ye porsuade the bhoys now to stand uploikemen, and face the inimy 
on his own ground? Bedad, a worrud from you, as a sthranger and 
a felly-counthryman, ’ud go a long way, so it would.” 

” Yer ftattheriu’ ot me, Pat,” rejoined Mike. “The bhoys air 
me compathriots and that away, but it’s you that is their layder and 
their chafe. Oi’ll be bound now they’re sulkin’ at the store, and 
mortial afraid of Benito. Spake to ’im yersilt, me dear h’rayney. 
’Tis j'crsilf is blest wid the gift of the gab, sure!” 

” ile tongue, Moike darlint, is not a patch upon yei own. Arrah, 
man, run down to the store yersilt, and fetch the tellys quick. Oi’m 
ashamed of them, Oi am!” 

” I’ll go, it 3'ou like,” volunteered Robert. 

‘‘ Bedad no, Misther Mormyon. If ’twas you began ra3^questing 
them fellys to square up to Billy Benito, they’d gouge your oye for 
a traithor. It’s thrue ()i’m tellin’ 3"e, sorr. The Oirish, sorr, are a 
wnrrum-hearteil and gen’rous race, leastways if ye get the roight 
side ot them. If not, me dear sorr, they’re the awkwardest, reveuge- 
fullest lot on Ihe face ot the airth. No, sorr, 5’-ou stop hereabouts, 
av’ ye’ll oblige, and smoke your cigar loike a bar’nbt and a man of 
aise, till 1 and IMoike here goes and brings them lagging fellys up 
to the scratch. ’ ’ 

Robert was rather bamboozled by all this maneuvering, but it 
happened that his mind was then preoccupied in the vain endeavor 
to reconcile various conflicting phenomena, and he was glad to be 
rid ot the wearisome clack ot these Milesians, the gene whereof was 
intensified by their brogue. So lie contentedly sat down on a ledge 
of quartz, close to the adit of the mine, and began to smoke, while 
Conolly and Piayney disappeared swiftly in the direction ot Long 
Camp. 

He had not got through a cigar when he perceived Billy Benito in 
close conference with three or four Yankees, and presently, as they 
approached him in a body, he perceived an ominous look on their 
very marked features. 

“Mr. Marmyou,” said Bilh’', with quiet emphasis, “you and 1 
have enjoyed drinks in one another’s compan3’-; we have mated, sir, 
agreeably. But, sir, the line you have taken in colloguing with the 
Irish scum that are plotting against the American citizens in this 


Uis'DEU WHICH KING? 251 

location has rendered you an object ot suspicion. In self-defense 
we are obliged to meet plot with counterplot, and we are assured, 
Mr. Marmyon, that you have knowledge of those plots against the 
lives and the property ot the citizens. It is, therefore, my painful 
duty to inform you, sir, that if any further attempt is made by your 
friends, we shall be compelled to treat you as an enemy of the 
American Republic. Do you understand me?” 

“ 1 don’t,” replied Robert—” not one bit. 1 am a friend of Pat 
Frayney, that 1 own, readily, and 1 have said openly that, in respect 
of this quarrel betAveen the Yankees and Irish on this placer, the 
Irish are in the right and the 1 ankees in the wrong. That is my 
opinion; but beyond holding an opinion, and expressing it, 1 have 
taken no side in this business. 1 wished, indeed, to arbitrate, but — ” 

” That could not be heard of,” interrupted Benito, sternly. 

‘‘ Quite so,” continued Robert, ” and there the matter ended, so 
far as I was concerned, being an Englishman and an alien, except 
that — ” 

” What?” demanded Benito, angrily. 

” Except that I have come here to-day to support a demand on the 
forbearance of the Yankees, which 1 was told would be put for- 
ward by ail the Irishmen in the location.” 

Benito started at this, ana turned to his friends as for an explana- 
tion. But they only exchanged glances. 

” They’re none of ’em here,” he said. ” And it might be well if 
you were somewhere else, too.” 

“ Why?” 

” Because some figures were observed as the moon was going down 
last night about the mine.” 

‘‘Indeed! You surprise me. ” 

‘‘ No, Mr. Marmyon, it’s our turn to be surprised that you should 
be mixed up in the business. 1 don’t appreciate, sir, your presence 
here, muchly. You air capable, sir, ot being made a tool of by Pat 
Frayney and his gang. Suppose you was to travel now from this 
spot right away?” 

‘‘ Tou misunderstand me — you wuong me,” pleaded Robert, half 
in vexation, half in anger. 

‘‘ That’s as may be. What do you think, my boys?” turning to 
the others, who w^ere getting obviously impatient. 

‘‘ Move him 1” was the unanimous cry, as of men who fancied they 
were being betrayed and were anxious to pitch upon the trail or in 
advance, without any special reference to justice, or indeed to aught 
else except suspicion, if not terror. They really believed the mine 
to be in danger, and the absence of the Irish confirmed their appre- 
hension. 

Clearly there was no possibility of resisting this imperious man- 
date. Robert perceived at once that the men were in downright 
earnest, but he was not to be turned ignominiously oil the ground 
without a word of protest. 

‘‘ Mates,” he cried, ‘‘ I’ll go, not because 1 must, but because 1 
wish to prove as far as I can that my motive in thrusiing myself be- 
tween two sets of laboring men, who, ought to work in harmony to- 
gether, is honest and pure. I leave Long Camp to-day— probably 
never to return. I leave this part of the States, possibly to cross 


■?c}’* I'XnEil WHICH KING? 

over to England, possibly to go tartber afield. We have met as 
equals and comrades, and it grieves me to part on ’\)ad terms. If I 
were to say I’m for you as much as for the Irish, atul for the Irish 
as much as for you, 1 should not be believed. But enough. 1 will 
obey you, Benito.” 

” You niay be correct in your calc’lation, or the reverse,” answered 
the other, in a somewliat more subdued tone. ” Anyhow we don’t 
trust men who can bring themselves to chum and collogue with Pat 
Frayuey. We have been menaced, sir, and when an Irishman 
threatens, you keep an eye on your skin. AVe have been told that 
the mine is to be blown over our heads. It is so, sir, that we have 
adopted precautions to prevent that catastKophe -some. But w'c 
cannot take out an infallible insurance nolicy against dynamite, and 
for that reason it is our inleution to minimize our risks. If you will 
accept advice, Mr. Marmyou, from a Yankee, you wdll make tracks 
right away from this location. By your own act you have become 
an object of suspicion to the citizens, and in the event of Irish 
' treachery, sir — which you may regard as sartain — your life will be 
forfeited. There is no trial by jury, Mr. Marmyon, in a free coun- 
try, no blather uinskite of condemning a man to death and then letting 
him oft. We do not try in this location, sir, neither do we condemn, 
sir. Our line is execution on the spot, and burial immediately after. 
The business, sir, is slick, some— almighty slick, sir.” 

Robert, as he spoke, glanced at the man’s hand. It was in his 
breast pocket and rested on a six-chamhered revolver. That gest- 
ure satisfied him quite. He moved slowly away from the adit, but 
not in the direction of Long Camp. It seemed to his mind rank 
cowardice to run away before the return of Frayney and Mike, with 
or without their compatriots. For all that his wish was to be clear 
of this imbroglio. 

In the interim Judge Potterer and Dolopy continued their cigars 
and pegs quite comfortably^ albeit the former occasionally expec- 
torated more than usual; a sure sign that Ins mind was irritable and 
on tenter-hooks. 

” They air a tarnation long timeover their business,” remarked the 
judge at length. ‘‘ 1 could, sir, have hanged a whole regiment and 
dug their graves while these Yankees are messing about a handful 
of Irish. But ’’—taking out his watcli— ” as it’s getting nigh noon, 
captain, you may as well, perhaps, be preparing to travel. Have 
you got that bill ready?” 

“ Ready— ay, ready!” laughed Dolopy. ” Here, my dear judge, 
is the reputed signature of .Robert Marmyon, Marmyou Court, Kent 
County, England, who has, according to this veracious statement 
received good value for fifty thousand dollars. Pity w^e could not 
make it four times that sum, judge.” 

^ ‘‘ AVhy, certainly. But, captain, half a loaf’s belter than no bread, 

you bet. You would not get a ’Frisco discounter to part on a larger 
piece of paper, especially as you have not the man to show. No, 
sir, this is the best and biggest that can be effected in the city of San 
Francisco, and even that much could not be done it it were not for 
those blessings of civilization, the children of Israel, who are ac- 
(^uaiuted with the name of every ’coon with coin on the surface ot 


UNDER WHICH KING? 253 

this planet, sir. Hist!, what was that? Quick, captain. That 
sounds like business. "Why, what— did you hear?” 

Hear! Yes, indeed, Dolopv did, and half the Southern Stafes ap- 
parently, tor such a roar went up to hiffh heaven as seemed to pro- 
claim the dissolution ot the planet, while the crashing glare in the 
windows told its own tale; indeed, the very tumblers they had been 
drinking out of fell to pieces spontaneously, while the din caused the 
drums of their ears to whiz, and almost stunned them, 

” In the name of horror,” cried Dolopy, alter he had shaken him- 
self to recover his breath, ” what has happened? That’s not the 
noise of revolvers.” 

‘‘ It is not, sir,” groaned the judge, his face deadly pale—” it is 
not, sir. That, sir, is the sound of mater’l called dynamite. Those 
darned Irish have blowm up the mine, and, by Jerusalem, Captain 
Dolopy, i’ll have the blood of every mart of them. You may save 
yourself the trouble of a journey to* San Francisco, sir, for Ihe wire 
will tell what’s happened before you can get there, and the Jews 
won’t look at that paper on my recommendation after this, and 
would not certainly do it without that. Now, sir, if you’re disposed 
to see some sport come with me. An Irish battue, sir, is splendid. 
There’s fifty of them to be revolvered, and Benito will do it. 
Come.” 

The judge’s face as he spoke changed from ashen to crimson. 
The man was in P-uth reduced to the veige of ruin by this wanton 
act of Frayney, but the thought of revenge brought back the blood 
to his veins and aroused all the demon in his nature. 

” What in the world is the significance ot that shindy?” gasped 
Horace, meeting the pair at the door, and presenting the appearance 
ot a man who has been suddenly awakened from a death-like sleep. 

” They have blown up the mine,” replied Dolopy, ” and w^e’re 
oS to enjoy the spectacle of the Irish being exterminated. ’Will 5 "ou 
come?” 

” Not quite,” replied Horace. ” That sort of amusement is not 
in m}^ line. I never could have appreciated the luxury of the 
amphitheater. No, I’ll sit down and write across to England. That 
will prepare their minds foi any possible contingency.” 

” Au re'coir, then,” cried the captain, ” and order a good dinner, 
will you, Horace? We shall be hungry after this business.” 

“Hungry?” echoed Horace, after the door closed. “What 
pachydermatous blackguards some men are! 1 can't eat — 1 sha’n’t 
eat for weeks to come. But 1 can write by way of relief to my 
Macbeth-like mind. Ugh! vrhat a blessed world this would be with- 
out those two colossal evils, conscience and crime. It will pay me 
if that Crtd, Robert Marmyon, is potted, and yet 1 would hug the 
alternative of a crust of bread and liberty if only he could escape. 
Basta! Wbat the parsons call guilt is clearly a mistake, at all events 
to a man of sestlietic sensibilities.” 

And so, as we already know, he took pen and paper, and wrote 
home that the mine was blown up; in a vein, too, of forced jocularity. 


254 CHI>EK WHICH KIHCi? 


CHAPTJEK XXXVIt 

THE AUTO DA-FB. 

Judge Potterer and Dolopy walked hastily to the center of 
Long Camp village, armed, prudentially, with six chambered revol- 
vers. The Yankee miners tvere rushing in dozens headlong from 
the placer, their features distorted with fright and fury, and the cry 
arose that five of their number were killed, that the mine was a 
wreck, and that the Irishmen were nowhere to be found in the loca- 
tion. 

“ Where’s Marmyon?” yelled the judge, at the top of his voice. 

Nobod}'- would answer. A few queries soon elicited the fact from 
the women ot the village that the Irish had moved oft in a body three 
hours before noon in the direction of Yatkuma, the next location 
southward, and that Frayney, with another, supposed to be Conolly, 
had ridden after them at headlong speed not q-uite halt an hour be- 
fore the explosion occurred. 

“ Ihen,” cried the judge, “ the order of the day is, protect the 
citizens. Follow the Irishmen, and lynch the entire gang!” 

Benito, his eyes hashing fire, echoed this terrible mandate with a 
voice of thunder, and was greeted with a mighty cheer and the 
unanimous cry of “Ay, ay, boss,” llevolvers and knives were 
finaered in anticipation, and the whole village ot Long Camp turned 
out to slaughter tlieir assailants. 

Those who on this side ot the ocean contend that the Irish, on ac- 
count ot their excellence of disposition and conspicuous virtues, 
siiould be condoned any such teihporary ebullilions of temper as may 
result in assassination, incendiarism or any other form of outrage, 
including the reckless abuse of the potentiality placed at the disposal 
ot every scoundrel in Europe by the invention of nitro-glycerine, 
would not meet with many sympathizers in the United States. Our 
American cousins, for their own reasons, utilize readily enough 
Hibernian malice when it happens to be directed against England 
and the English; but when that same ugly quality aflects their own 
lives and limbs they never pause to parley. If Lord Frederick 
Cavendish had. been a servant ot the American Republic, and if 
Phoenix Park had been situated in the State of Calfornia, within ten 
minutes atCer the discovery ot that foul crime the gutters ot Dublin 
would have been running blood. Our method is calmer, more 
judicial, and, above all in essence Christian, but it utterly fails to 
prevent crime. The Irish set down our unwillingness to exact bar- 
baric Nemesis to sheer cowardice, and they entertain a rooted convic- 
tion that John Bull can be terrorized into any and every humiliation. 
It would be well for them as a nation if there arose one honest Irish: 
man to tell his comuatriots how irrationally they misinterpret En- 
glish character and English motives, and to coiitmst the scrupulous 
regard for justice evinced by our rulers — with the full approbation 
ot our people—with the high-handed lynch-lawof the United States. 
Such a Mentor might go fuithei, and proclaim aloft the truth that 
there is no reform, no change, however revolutionary, in Ireland, 


UXBER WHICH KIHG? 255 

whcreunto England would refuse her sanction, save only final and 
absolute severance. Post equitem sedet atra cura — at tlie back of 
Britannia, on her pillion, sits the figure of the direst Eiinnys, who 
cannot be shaken oil and is cruelly implacable. Wc would fain 
change that Fury into a friend if we could, but it takes two to ratify 
a bond of friendship, and the mote we give the more merciless and 
Vindictive does this satellite become. Possibly the introduction of 
the code of Judge Lynch would afford us a temporary respite; but 
from that wc shrink with intense aversion. Whatever we are, we 
are at least nomially Christian, and our view of the Christian code 
does not permit the sort of Nemesis which finds favor among the 
Benitos and Potterers of anarchic America. 

This is a digression, but the purpose of this narrative would fail 
if its moral were in any item obscured. The Irish ought to be forced 
by the public opinion of the civilized world to owm the justice, and 
the tender regard for individual life and liberty, of tlie people whom 
they hate, revile, slander, and crave to injure. In England, or in 
Ireland itself, the Executive, in a case like (hat of the Popsy Mine, 
which w^as, as we have seen, exploded with the maximum of malig- 
nity, would have spared no effort to trace and identity the guilty 
parties, and on conviction the hangman’s rope would have vindicated 
society. But we should never have indicted the death penalty ex- 
cept on irrefragable evidence; we should have executed the princi- 
pals only, and meted out a less punishment to their accomplices; 
while mere sympathy with a dastardly and diabolical act would not 
involve the open or secret sympathizer in criminal liability. 

In the rough and turbulent region of Long Camp vengeance followed 
with swift and sudden steps after crime. Frayney and his com- 
patriots knew that well enough, and they had laid their plans accord- 
ingly. The bulk of the Irish colony had moved off one by one be- 
tween daybreak and noon. Frayney himself, with IMike Conolly, 
who had been the actual dynamitard, having, with his own hand, 
set the clocks overnight, so as to time the explosion to a few minutes 
before noon, were, as we know, the last to leave, having procured 
horses to assist their flight. The implicated Irishmen, doubtless, 
expected that their ringleader, with his powerful accomplice, W'ould 
follow them to Yatkuma. If so they were in error. Both these 
cunning rowdies had too large a regard for their own skin. They 
started en route for that place, and were believed to have reached 
their companions’ trail, but as soon as they were beyond the range 
of field-glasses the pair adroitly doubled, and made foi San Fran- 
cisco, with the design of pushing forward northward. 

Billy Benito was something more than a mere ganger or leader 
of laboring men. In his wa}'^ the clever fellow possessed not a few 
of the qualities which go to make a general. Thus, as soon as the 
march on Yatkuma was decided on, he impressed all the horses in 
the village of Long Camp, mounted his best riders, and placing 
them under the command of Captain Dolopy— late, as the reader 
may remember, of the Queen’s service— ordered them to oqcupy the 
reverse side of Yatkuma, so that the enemy should not be able to 
steal away, and have to be followed yet further afield. Then with 
the main body, and the quasi-moral suppoit of Judge Potterer, who 
flourished the ’license from the White House to employ any and 


256 t'N-BER WHICH KING? 

every expedient in order— as it was paradoxically worded — to “ pro- 
tect the citizens/' he moved forward to the attack, eager for re- 
venge, and proud in the consciousness of his force being in the pro- 
portion ot at least ten to one to that ot the Irish contingent. 

“The awkward part of the business is," whispered Dolopy to 
Judge Potterer, as he rode away, “ that I’m bound in honor to save 
Marmyon if the opportunity occurs.” 

“ Wall, sir,” rejoined the conscientious functionary, “ then don’t 
let the opportunity occur. You can invent a blind eye, sir, as your 
Lord Nelson might have at Copenhagen, it he hadn’t had one ready- 
made. Marmyon, Captain Dolopy, has out of simple cussedness 
constituted himself a party to the almightiest crime tiiat has dis- 
graced the annals of tne State of California, and if jou don’t re- 
volver him for that same, maybe there are those who will. \ou bet, 
Dolop3^” 

And so the cavalry squadron trotted forward: in loose array the 
company of miners followedy while behind them— a practical satire 
on the genius of misrule— straggled the wives and elder children of 
those live miners who lay dead on the placer, the miserable victims 
of Irish devilry. 

At first the march was silent, broken only by the sobs and moans 
ot the women, tor men about to encounter danger, and to execute 
condign vengeance in the sacred name ot justice, have not the heart 
to chatter. The distance to be traversed was a long seven miles, 
and that under the afternoon sun of a Californian spring alone in- 
volved no small fatigue. Indeed, as they gradually approached 
within sight of tl»e location which retained its ancient Indian 
nomenclature, Judge Potterer called a halt, and Billy Benito, from 
a basket he carried, containing bottles, served out all round a dram 
ot that maddening fluid which imparts antic^Tan courage— the 
Mexican demon, pulque. 

That, however, was not all. The and Benito had resolved 

to prime their agents, but to arous# also all the savagery in their not 
very gentle natures. “ Hell for hell ” was their diabolical motto, 

“Citizens,” snarled, rather than cried, in his most nasal tone, 
that representative of law and order, Judge Potterer — “ citizens, in 
the name ot the star-spangled banner, 1 bid you do your duty. Y'ou 
have under your eyes the wives and offspring of your murdered 
comrades. They have marched with you these long miles, citizens, to 
be the eye-witnesses ot the punishment of the cold-blooded criminals 
who have made them widows and orphans. You have the full 
authoiit}^ of the President of the Republic to obliterate these out- 
laws, and 1 call upon you to spare nary one of the lot. The citizen 
that spares an Irishman will have to seUle conclusions with the Re- 
public, in virtue ot whose mandate 1 now appoint Citizen Benito as 
generalissimo, to carry through this .business, lou will obey his 
orders, citizens, and 1 reckon will do 3 ^our duty. Now! Fall in and 
steady!’! 

In a trice Benito had deployed his men, so as to environ as in a 
belt three-fourths of the small station of Yatkuma, the remainder 
being already covered by Dolopy, and his mounted miners, wdio 
were visible already in the distance w^aiting for the tray. As they 


UNDER WHICH KING? 25 *? 

advanced cautiously in their horse-shoe form, the \Yings extencjing 
right and left, a Yatkumancaine forward, and was duly challenged. 

“ Citizen,” said the judge, ‘“y^u see, this warrant. 1 require you 
to aid in protecting the citizens.*” 

” Wall, certainly, you bet, judge, this ’coon’s Yankee.” 

‘‘Where aie those cussed Irishers located?” inquired Benito, in 
the sort of tone that commanded a direct answer. 

‘‘ Gin’ral,” replied the man, slowly, guess they maybe found 
almighty drunk nud quarrelsome inside the store. Calculate some 
they don’t expect visitors.” 

” Right. Then, quick, go and tell the storekeeper to turn them 
out kerslap, or it will be bad for him.” » 

The man grinned knowingly. ‘ ‘ The storekeeper, you bet,” he 
said, ‘‘ goes by the name of O’Flnherty. That sounds almiglity 
Irish. Guess he will not hurry to eject his friends and country- 
men.” 

Judge Potterer smiled and nodded to Benito, who passed the 
order to move forward stealthily. 

Little by little they closed in upon the devoted store, wherein, as 
they had. been correctly informed, these rowdy accomplices in a 
cruel crime were roistering, quite oblivious of impending peri). 
They had not calculated upon being followed up quite so promptly, 
and besides that were confidently awaiting the advent of Frayncy 
and Conolly. In fact, not one man of them at the moment knew 
for certain that the plot had succeeded. Clocks constructed to ex- 
plode dynamite not seldom tail at the crisis, and it was an even 
chance that they had run avvay from Long Camp without any def- 
inite cause. 

At last the two horns of this segment of a circle met; the mounted 
men vaulted from their horses, and the* women pressed forward to 
witness and gloat over the butchery. 

Some one, however, must have given the alarm, for ere over they 
reached the entrance of the store it was bolted firmly iu their face, 
while in a moment the whiz of half a dozen bullets warned them 
that the enemy meant to show fight, and in another moment one of .. 
their men dropped wounded. 

‘‘ Smoke ’em out,” yellefi Benito, fiercely. 

‘‘Ay, ay,” chimed in the judge— ‘‘ there’s enough petroleum 
about that store, you bet, to roast a regiment!’' 

Swift as lightning the miners collected wood and other combusti- 
bles, while by a well-directed fusilade at the windo'^ of the store 
they contrived to silence the Irish fire. A keg of petroleum from a 
neighboring cabin was then finng on the pile and a match applied. ' 
In less time than the words take to write the walls were ablaze, and 
as the flames rose like' dancing pyramids in the glaring sunlight a 
wild shriek poured iu one hideous volume from the throats ot the 
drunken ruffians 'within, now imprisoned in a winding-sheet of living 
fire. 

There was not one breath ot wind, and the smoke mounted up- ' 
ward like Noah’s sacrifice in the picture. The human circle, re- 
volvers in hand, grouped round the burning fiery furnace waiting 
to see if any one of the victims w'ould attempt to break cover. For 
a minute it seemed as though they had elected to stand and be 


268 UNDER WHICH KINH? 

Durned to cinders^wlien suddenly the door — already charred to a 
red heat — fell with a crash, and some half dozen human heings, 
blackened and seared, burst forth, leaping, gasping, and shrieking 
with agony. 

“Down with them,” -yelled Judge Potterer. “No tarnation 
quarter. Give it to the blackguards, citizens!” 

Hut there was no need to hound on these pulque-primed Yankees. 
Before the wretches could reach the feet ot their foes to cry for 
mercy the death-bearing bullets, like hail, had laid every man of 
theur low. 

“ Upon my honor, judge,” remarked Captain Dolopy, lighting a 
cigar, and pocketing liis revolver, “ this is rather a sickening busi- 
ness. 'I’m not squeamish— but confound it — I’d give a rat a better 
chance than that!” 

“ Calc’late 1 would, too,” responded the judge, dryly. “ A rat, 
sir, is a respectable varmint. ” 

Scarcely had this somewhat unhandsome comparison escaped his 
lips tlum a few more ot the unfortunate Irishmen contrived to fiutl 
the sole exit from the blazing edifice. They, however, were too 
burned to do more than stagger a few yards and drop, writhing in 
pitiable tortures. 

“ Shall we fire, judge?” asked Benito, laughing wildly. 

Judge Potterer took a hurried glance at these agonized human 
beings, and made a response in the negative. “ It is not necessary, 
1 reckon,” he observed, with his tongue in his cheek, “ to protect 
the citizens against smoked bacon. Let the ’coons frizzle — some — 
till they stop. ” 

“Ugh!” groaned Dolopy, turning away, “that spectacle is one 
too many for a Britisher’s stomach. Has anybody got any brandy?” 

“ Any more to come?” inquired Benito, with dry emphasis, ad- 
dressing bimself to the raging store. There were not. Indeed the 
groans and sbricks, the stilled, unearthly noises, the awful silence 
which succeeded as the flames by degrees ceased to roar and crackle, 
told their own tale. store of sugar, spirit, and lietroleum was 
soon reduced to ashes, a portion whereof represented all that re- 
mained of the sinned against though sinning Irishmen— good fel- 
lows had they been better handled. 

“jVIarmyon,” whispered Dolopj'-, at length in the judge’s ear. 
Somehow though the slaughter of these Irish miners, apart from its 
concomitant honors, seemetl ot little significance in his eyes, the 
fate of the liMr ot a huge property aroused hia keenest inteiost. 
People of the Dolopy type firmly believe, as an article of faith, that 
the owner in esse or in posse of a name and estate is ipso facto differ- 
ent from common clay, 

“ You bet,” w^as the grim response. 

Then as the flames subsided the women, who hitherto had been 
looking on, .scared at this scene of fire and blood, by degrees began 
to cry and moan, and at last one, a widow like the rest, and a young 
widotv, too, wmo had lost the love ot her life, crept up to a groan- 
ing, agonized Irishman, and tearing off portions ot her. dress, applied 
the fragments to the wretch’s wounds. Soon another followed her 
example, hastening to the aid of a dying man, while a third ran and 
borrowed water to assuage the raging thirst of the sufferers. The 


259 


UNDER WHICH KINH? 

Yankees also seemed half ashamed, for by twos and threes they 
strayed afield to make their way back with all speed to Long Camp. 

To be candid, while they had got their revenge, even their brutalized ^ 
natures had had quite enough of it. 

“I’d give a pot of dollars,” muttered Captain Dolopy to Billy 
Benito, “ to know for certain whether that cuss Marmyon was in 
that store!” 

“ And that, sir, you never will know as long as you live on this 
airth— unless tlie cuss turns up sot^wheres else, and that’s not 
likely, for he’d be bound to stick to Tat Frayney, and go with the 

“ But was Frayney there? 

“ Not a doubt of it, sir. It Avpuld have been worth Fr.ayney’s life 
to desert his comrades at that crisis.” 

Captain Dolopy ’s voice shook just n trifle as he whispered, “ And 
you think, Benito, that both Marmyon and Frayney have perished?” 

“That, sir, is my calcilation. But to-morrow, after the fire is 
quite out, you Can search for any token of either of them, if, sir, 
that is your pleasure. ” 

“ I’ll send over to-morrow to inquire,” remarked Dolopy, as he 
mounted his horse. “ To stop in this atmosphere of burned bacon 
to-night would, 1 think, be a trifle too unwholesome. So, Mr. 
Benito, I’ll get off before sunset, and you may accept my congratu- 
lations that this business has gone otf so satisfactorily.” 

Bide the captain did, as though he were riding a flat race, with 
Nemesis behind him, oblivious altogether of Judge h’olterer, who 
in fact decided to remain for the night in Yatkuma, nominally to 
protect the citizens against a non-existent peril— really to ascertain 
whether the entire gang of Irish was massacred— for his own safety’s 
Scll^.0 

“ Well,” inquired Horace, with an anxious face, as, begrimed and 
filthy, Dolopy entered Judce Potterer’s residence, and unpleasantly 
inlerr’uptea his peaceful evening meal, “ and what’s become of, the 
Irish?” 

“ There are no Insh!” replied the captain. 

“ And—” in a very faltering tone, “ Robert Marmyon?’ 

“ There is no Robert Marmyon!” ' 

Horace turned ashy pale. The news somehow sounded too true 
to be good, rather than the reverse. 


CHAPTER XXXVm. 

AN EPISTLE OF HORACE. 

Sir Rorert and Lady Marmyon, teU'd-iete in the library, 
indulging one forenoon, about three Aveeks after the events recorded 
in the last chapter, in one of those polite squabbles where, in cult- 
ured circles, the combatants find it very diflicult to keep the buttons 

on their foils, or the semblance of temper. 

The subject of contention happened to be that pretty child, Polly 
Williams, a pet aversion of the pmse aristocrat. 

“ E— er— ah,” fumed the baronet, “1 really feel very posed to 


260 


UK1> Ell WHICH 

know what ought lo he done. With my normal quixotic impetuos- 
ity, ] went and promised — er — ah — Robert that 1 woulcMook after 
the girl, and 1 hear now she’s disappeared. What ought one to do 
in such a case, as a man of honor?” 

” Bear it with resignation,” remarked her ladyship. 

” Er— ah — yes. Er — ah — no. The fellow will come back and 
say, ‘ Ilou pledged your solemn word no harm should come to the 
girl, and I left her in your chaige on that condition. What happens? 
1 go to the ends of the earth in. obedience to your behest, and — ’ ” 

‘‘I’m sure he wouldn't say ‘ behest,’ ” interrupted Lady Mar- 
myon. ‘‘ That is a sort of word which never would escape the lips of 
a barbarian. ’ ’ 

” Er— ah— it’s of no earthly consequence how, oT' in what language 
the fellow would put it. What concerns me is, that he would ac- 
cuse me of a flagrant breach of faith. There’s the rub, my dear.” 

‘‘ A double and the rub,” smiled her ladyship, blandly. 

‘‘ Er — ah. Excuse me,” said Sir Robert, bridling. ” This is not 
a subject for levity. This poor little girl — ” 

‘‘ Poor little animal!” scoffed my lady with upturned nose. 

” Well, she certainly is very pretty.” 

” Indeed! 1 was not aware that she had captivated my husband 
— as -well as my — niy— hem, sou!” 

‘‘ Nonsense! Er — ab— pardon me, that savors of the species of 
mauvaise 'plaisanterie my intelligence fails to appreciate. 1 was 
about to remark that this poor little girl, having lost her heart to 
Robert, has suddenly and inexplicably levanted"— where Heaven 
knows, and why Heaven knows. 1 suppose 1 must employ detect- 
ives to run her to earth and bring her back home. And so this freak 
of hers will cost me a clear hundred pounds. It’s er— alisr-” 

” Quite too silly with the tenants demanding ten per cent, reduc- 
tion on the last half-year’s rent to dream of wasting money on any 
such wild-goose chase. ’ ’ 

‘‘ But— er— all— how in the name of all that’s disagreeable am 1 
to meet— er— ah— Robert?” 

‘‘ Why, with fortitude. You have no fortitude.” 

“ 1 beg your pardon. From my boyhood upward 1 have been al- 
ways accredited with pluck. ” 

‘‘Moral courage, 1 mean. You have always been deficient in 
moral courage. ” 

” Er— ah, really, j^ou are complimentary. Lmiglit urge that when 
everybody lost his head about this business— er — ah— of Planny be- 
ing supposititious, 1 alone kept mine, and did the right thing.” 

‘‘ Indeed! 1 thought that my advice solved the problem.’’ 

‘‘Absurd, my dear. You— ei — ab — forget. A'oiir memory is 

er— ah — not at all what it used to be.” 

“ 1 wish your manliness iiad lasted as long as my memory, lor 
your own sake, Robert, of coursel” 

*‘ My manliness? Don’t 1 desire to do the manly thing in regard 
to this tiresome litlle girl, Williams?” 

‘‘ 1 really cannot perceive the manliness of squandering money on 
a village slut.” 

“Well, upon my honor. 1—er— never, never in my life, Lady 


UKDER WHICH KIKG? 261 

Marmyon, found you before so totally— er— ab— dead to all consid- 
erations of—” 

At that precise moment, however, when my lady was growing in- 
tolerably insolent, and Sir Eobert irritated beyond all expression. 
Mercury intervened to announce 3It. Orphiey. 

“ Aha!” cried the baronet, in a trice smoothing the clustered 
wrinkles on his brow, and advancing to meet the village padre with 
all the bonhomie in the world, ” and how is our worthy shepherd? 
Here, my dear Orphrey, is one ot your dock who persists in overdo- 
ing it. Lady Marmyon has no stamina to speak ot, and yet she is 
so hardy as to go to balls two nights in succession. The result, as 
you perceive, is she is fairly knocked up.” •». 

Mr. Orphrey smiled — or, rather, essayed to smile. ” 1 .am sorry 
for that,” he said, offering his threadbare band to her ladyship, 
” because it renders my task doubly difficult; indeed, perhaps I 
ought, under the circumstances, to defer it.” 

Lady Marmyon opened her pale eyes. The priest had evidently 
something out of the common to impart, aud her quick perception 
detected this by his agitated manner. 

” Pray, Mr. Orphiey,” she faltered, ” do nothing of the kind. I 
am perfectly well, and quite as strong as usual. It is Sir Robert’s 
■^vay, 3'OU know, to imagine that I’m ill when 1 fail to rise to the 
level of his typical dairy-maid. But, unfortunately for us poor 
women, we can’t all be rustic beauties.” 

This, of course, was a cut at Polly Williams, and a back -hander 
at the too solicitous Sir Robert, but Mr. Orphrey did not appreciate 
its double edge, for he proceeded quietly to deliver himself. 

‘ ‘ The fact is, ’ ’ he said, speaking oracularly as one who has thought 
over his words beforehand and is primed accordingly—” the fact is, 
1 have had a letter, a rather important letter, from abroad — from 
America. You will, perhaps, be surprised when 1 tell you that it 
comes from a gentleman with whom 1 have but the slightest ac- 
quaintance, a relation, 1 fancy, of Lady Marmyon.” 

” Horace St. Vincent, ”*ejaculated Sir Robert. 

“You anticipate me. He writes from— ahem— San Francisco, 
the beautiful city dedicated to Saint Francis of Assisi— and he writes 
at some lenglli.” 

1 hope he is quite well,” remarked Lady Marmyon, to fill up 
an awkward pause, Mr. Orphrey being painfully unable to proceed 
with his recital, 

” Oh, yes. At least not very well; poor fellow; Ire seems to have 
had a severe shock.” 

“ A shock!” cried Sir Robert, impetuously. ” Good gracious, my 
dear Orphrey, can’t you come to the point? You have news to tell. 
Bad news?” 

” Kindly, Sir Robert, permit me to tell my tale in my own way, 
for Lady IVIarmyon’s sake.” 

“ Er — ah — yes,” responded the baronet, curtly. 

” And, Mr. Orphrey, pray do not regard my nerves,” observed 
Lady Marmvon, ” 1 can bear— anything.” 

The vicar* gazed for a second gt lire pale aristocratic features of 
the wife and mother, but he could not convince himself of her nerve, 
so he continued to beat about the bush. 


m 


TODEE WHICH KIHGf 


“ Mr. St. Yincent, it appears, with Mr. Robert Marmyon, and a 
certain Captain Dolopy, whom 1 have a sort of iudisliuct recollec- 
tion of, have been exploiting — that is the correct terminology, 1 think 
—exploiting the mineral regions of California.” 

” How charming!” murmured my lad}^ 

” Quite so— in regard, of the fauna and flora, the skies, the scen- 
ery, and— and all except* the inhabitants. ' On^ nian is vile’ seems 
to be, from Mr. St. Vincent’s graphic description, a truism in the 
highest degree applicable to California, and indeed in the entire 
Southern States.” 

Again a pause to enable good Mr. Orphre^ to collect himself. 

And what happened?” suggested impatient Sir Robert, walking 
across tolhe window. 

” Too much, 1 fear, to be capable of being ciystallized in a word 
or in a sentence. Mr. Robert Marmyon, so 1 gather from this letter, 
fell in with a party of miners — Irishmen, in fact; these fellow^s, 1 
conclude, must have picked a quarrel with the Americans of the 
locality, and the afllair terminated by the explosion of the mine. Mr. 
St. Yincent assures me that both he and his friend Captain Dolopy 
did their very utmost to endeavor to detach Mr. Robert Marmyon 
from this most unfortunate association, but he was headstrong, and 
— if 1 am to quote the actual epithet employed by’ Mr. St. Yincent — 
intractable. Of course, after sucli an outrage as the explosion of a 
mine, which caused the death of five American miners, the feud be- 
tween the Irish and American factions resolved itself into a war d 
Voutrance, and equally, 1 regret to add, of course, the aggressors, the 
Irish, were, in the struggle which ensued, overpowered.” 

” And Robert, 1 imagine, must have been overpowered with his 
Irish congeners,” remarked Lady Marmyon, with an amount of 
mngp'okl, amounting to utter callousness. 

Mr. Orphrey looked puzzled how to reply. 

” Is that the case?” demanded Sir Robert, eagerly. 

‘‘ Perhaps,” faltered the clergyman, “ 1 had better read verbatim 
that part of Mr. Horace St. Vincent’s letter. Let me see. Here it 
is on page four; 

“ ‘ Poor Robert left us, without a note of w^arning as to his in- 
tentions, to breakfast with one Frayuey, the ringleailer of the Irish 
gang, and with him and another subsequently walked to the mine. 
That was early in the morning. The fatal explosion did not take 
place till noon, but -immediately after it occurred neither Robert 
nor a single Irishman of (he entire gang could be found on the spot. 
The local magistrate, with Captain Dolopy, departed at once for 
Yatkuma, a neighboring station, where the Irish were reported to 
be massed in force. 1 remained behind in the vain hope of tracing 
the whereabouts of the poor fellow among the placers, now deserted 
by the miners, who were bent on exacting an awful Nemesis for 
this diabolical deed. On arrival at Yatkuma, a sort of pitched 
battle seems to have been fought between the rival factions. The 
Irish, outnumbered, retreated to the store, the largest building on 
the station, and defended themselves with their traditional heroism. 
But the odds were too heavily against them. The Yankees fired the 
Store, and those of the Irish party who escaped from the flames were 


tTKDEIl ^vniCTI KIKG? 2C8 

instantly shot clown by their inf uriaterl antagonists. Dolopy, sickened 
at the sight of sncli cruel butchery, returned with all speed to me, 
in hopes that Robert had not been so wrong-headed as to cast in his 
lot witli these murderous Irish miners. You may imagine the dear 
good fellow’s horror when he discovered that Robert was missing, 
and had in all human probability perished in the conflagration of 
whic;h he himself had been the unwilling witness. 1 thought he 
W'ould have gone mad; 1 was scarcely less concerned for my own 
mental equilibrium. The thought, however, that so much depended 
on me and my efforts nerved me. I could not sleep— that 1 need 
hardly say — but at earliest daybreak 1 rode with all speed to Yat- 
kuma. The embers of the store were still smoldering, A subse- 
quent search among them did not reveal any trace of Robert, but, 
providentially, 1 succeeded in finding half -alive, half-dead, in a 
miner’s cabin, a man named O’Flaherty. He was not one of 
Frayney’s gang, but kept the store, and seems to have rushed forth 
fearfully burned from the enveloping flames, and to have dropped 
immediately. But for that he would, like the others, have been shot 
dead. As it was he escaped for the nonce to die, however, subse- 
cj[uently from the effects of the fire. W hen first 1 interviewed the 
poor man he was unconscious, but afterward he had a brief lucid 
inteiwal, and in response to my queries he gave me to understand 
that a stranger answering to the description of Robert was actually 
in his house, and in the act of di inking a bottle of wine when the 
attack commenced. Before wiring or wwiiing this gi ievous intelli- 
gence to Sir Robert and Lady Marmyon, 1 felt it to be a paramount 
duty to institute the most stringent and general inquiries in all pos- 
sible directions, and to advertise in the chief newspapers throughout 
the United States. This prolonged search hitherto has not added 
one iota to my stock of information, and 1 am therefore, with the 
bitterest reluctance, compelled to add that 1 shall esteem it the 
greatest of personal favors if j'ou will break this distressing intelli- 
gence to the poor fellow’s bereaved parents. 1 cannot and shall not 
return home without making one additional, though 1 feel abortive, 
effort to trace him, and this not merely for his father’s but for his 
own sake. His was a manly, magnanimous, and lovable nature. 
He took up the cause of the Irish with all the unselfish chivalry of 
a Marmyon, and if he was not in manner or by education exactly 
cultured, the accident of his earlier associations could not affect the 
innate nobility of his breed. Had he lived, I am persuaded he 
would have been a son of whom any gentleman might well have 
been proud, and in him 1 feel that 1 have lost a very dear friend. 
Give my love and sincere condolence to Sir Robert and Lady Mar- 
myon, and with every apology to yourself, believe me yours in deep 
sorrow, 

“ ‘ Hokace St. Vincent. 

“ ‘ p. s.— 1 will ask you to tell Sir Robert that 1 have necessarily 
expended the entire amount he placed at my disposal in the vain 
search after poor Robert. Sad, indeed, that a tour which began so 
auspiciously should have been thus suddenly brought to a conclu- 
sion. Soixa, sma, necessitas!' ” 

“ Horace, er— ah,” gulped Sir Robert, ” always was the most con- 


264: UOTEE WHICH KING? 

siderate of men, and it is like his forethought and good-feeling to 
request you, my dear friend Orphrey, to — er — ah — break this awful 
news to us. You too are in this affair, as you ever have proved 
yourself to be, tlie kindest and most sympathetic of parish priests.” 
And he held out both his hands to feeble, faltering, and blushing 
Mr. Orphrey. 

” Yes,” murmured her ladyship, sweetly, “ you are indeed very, 
very kind, and ” — applying lace to her nase and pulling a usage de 
circonstance I’m sure we have every reason to thank you! Poor 
dear Kobert was, as you know, almost a stranger to us both, though 
we recognized him quite as our son, and were fully conscious of 
those qualities to w'hich my cousin Horace alludes so feelingly. But 
of course the blow is not, cannot be, quite as crushing as it would 
have been had we known the poor fellow more intimately. He has 
been to us, it 1 rriay say so, a bird of passage. He came into our 
life; he has passed from it. And— •” with a profound sigh that 
might mean deep grief or deej^er satisfaction — ” doubtless it is all 
for the best.” 

‘‘Quite so,” addei Sir Robert, as though all was now settled 
definitelj'’, and there remained no more to be said. ‘‘ And, therefore, 
1 think we must meet the occasion with dignity. W e shall, of course, 
my dear, decline Lord Sevenoaks’ dinner-party and tlie lawn-tlnnis 
tournament at Grey Mount. AYe must put the servants into mourn- 
ing, and perhaps, my dear Orphrey, you will make some appropriate 
allusion to the melancholy event in your sei’mon. 1 shall myself 
write an exact account of the wretched catastrophe to the society 
papers — they alw^ays blunder when they can, and — and— er— ah— -1 
think that’s all!” 

Mr. Orphrey rather opened his eyes at this definition of the whole 
duty of a man and a father under a bereavement, but he said noth- 
ing. He at all events had done his duty to the best of his ability, 
and was glad enough to bow himself oft the scene. Both husband 
and wife were quite too obviously relieved by a tragedy that to other 
parents would have been most heart-rending, and the good clergy- 
man hardly appreciated this thinly veiled exhibition of callous in- 
difference. To his mind it was inhuman and unchristian, though 
he did not esteem it a matter of obligation to inform either of them 
of his candid opinion. 

Sir Robert, with his strict regard for the unities, could not but 
wire for Errol, who was in town enjoying himself up to the hilt in 
a sort of fashion that w'ould not have been accorded the warm appro- 
bation of Air. Orphre}^or indeed of any Agnostic gifted with moral 
sense. Quitting the more congenial society of Venus, Bacchus, 
Alomus et Cie, this admirable young gentleman promptly responded 
to the paternal mandate, and duly put in an appearance at the solemn 
seven o'clock feed, his features toned down to the occasion. 

‘‘ Alydear Errol,” said Sir Robert, ” lam— er — ah — glad that you 
have had the good taste to return to your home at this sad crisis. It 
would be affectation to suppose that you are prcfoundly affected by 
an event Avhich has plunged our family in— er— ah— conventional 
sorrow, but you are acting in the best taste by preserving a proper 
appearance. \Ye owe it as a duty to ourselves, my dear boy, to our 


UJTDER WHICH KIHG? 265 

position, to society, and 1o the unfortunate man whom we have lost, 
to endeavor to drop the— er— ah -tributary tear. ” 

“ Especially,” whispered, funereally, my lady, “ because the blow 
has fallen upon us without a note of w'arnina!” 

Errol smiled grimly. “ That,” said he, ‘‘ is "my fault. 1 didn’t 
care to tell you, because 1 thought it might be contradicted; but I 
had a wire of this news quite three wreeks ago.” 


CHAPTEH XXXIX. 

‘ ‘ E W 1 1>0 W ’ S MITES.” 

In other localities, and in some, too, even more superb than 
Marmyon Court, if you want the earliest intelligence avoid the front 
stairs. Filtration begins at the other side of the house, and the serv- 
ants’ hall enjoys a monopoly both of vintage wines and accurate in- 
formation which the salon- commonly lacks. For example, while 
the library, supposed to be the center of all news affecting the great 
house of Marmyon, w^as absolutely and entirely ignorant of Robert’s 
fate, it had reached the ear of Polly Williams, and was ancient his- 
tory in the solemn sanctum of Hester Mazebiook. 

The news, however, which threw a hypocritical shade over the 
Court, did not afitect Polly quite in the same ratio. It gravitated to 
her ear through Horace’s wire to Errol, which document careful 
and professionally inquisitive Mrs. Mazebrook discovered by diligent 
search in one of ErioTs pockets, and subsequently— perhaps to relieve 
her mind of being the sole possessor of a secret— revealed in the 
strictest confidence to Polly. The telegram ran thus: 

“ From Hm^ace St. Vincent, JBtirldeG’s Hotel, San Francisco, to Errol 
Marmyon, Panurge Cluh, Pall Mull, London, S. W. 

” Believe Robert ended. Sarsum corda. You are heir. More 
anon.” 

A glance at that telegram told the terrified girl that there had 
been something approximating to foul play, and sent her home to 
think. There was, .however, no tear visible in those lovely eyes of 
hers. They burngd with the firce raging heat of a righteous wrath; 
they did not as yet melt into sorrow. In her agjonyof pent-up feel- 
ing she hurried first of all to Belinda Hodge, in quest of the sym- 
pathy her soul yearned after. 

” 1 wouldn’t take on so, Pol, if 1 was you,” drearily responded 
that matter-of-fact young woman, indulging in a cavernous yawn. 
” Robert he’d gave you the go-by, he had, and there bain’t no good 
in frettin’ arter him. If he’d a-livefl he’d a-bin bound to marry one 
of them great ladies, and now he’s dead he can’t do that. If 1 w^as 
you, Pol, I’d find a consolation in that thought. He bain*’t yourn, 
that’s true, but he bain’t nobody else’s.” 

Polly Williams administered a look— such a look of anguish and 
rebuke — in return for this cold-blooded speech; then she turned on 
her heel in silence— she had asked for bread and had been offered a 
stone. She had not w^alked a dozen steps away from that vulgar 
temple of the village bacchanals when a tottciing step followed her. 


266 UNDER AVHICH KING? 

and a croaking noise, as of some one choking, airested her atten- 

“ Do’ee stop! 1 be that rheumatic and hard of breath 1 can’t go 
no furder, Pol. Ugh!” 

” What is it, Widow Gipps?” inquired Polly, her accents none 
the less musical tor being so toned to a minor key. 

‘‘ What be wrong with my Robert?” croaked the old woman. 

' Polly’s eyes flashed like a duchess’s sapphires in the lull blaze of 
the electric light. She seemed for the nonce unable to answer, and 
when she did find her voice it seeemd hollow and uncanny. 

“ I’ll tell you, Mrs. Gipps,” she said; “ the iw)ple lip at the Court 
Iheie, they didn’t know what to do with the poor fellow. Hester 
Mazebrook says that my lady called him a white elephant, though 
what her meant by that 1 doesn’t know'; but little good, 1 be bound. 
It ain’t a easy thing, however, to get rid of a man in this yere coun- 
try, what with the perleece, and the law, and the assizes, and all 
that ; so they catches hold of him w'hen his temper’s gone wuong 
about that deceitful Irish chap, and they overpersuades him to go 
away to Ameriky, they does, where, as 1 suppose, there bain’t no 
laws at all, and no perleece, nor any of them things; ^nd, Mrs. 
Gipps, they’ve gone and doned tor liim, jist as 1 was sartain sure 
they would, from wdiat 1 heered tell before! lie’s dead, IMrs. Gipps, 
that he be, and that there willin, Errol Marmyon, he be the next lord 
of this place. Dead, Mrs. Gipps, 1 tell ’ee!” 

“ Do you go to think all that’s true?” faltered Widow Gipps. 

Think, mum! Ain’t 1 seed the telegram?. Ain’t 1 seed with my 
own heyes the words, ‘ Robert ended, and you’re ’ — that’s that there 
wicked Errol— ‘ you’re the heir?’ Missus Gipps, there’s them as 
deserves 1o be hanged wusnoi them as is hanged; but what can poor 
folks do agaiust money?”* 

Mrs. Gipps tremoled all over. “ He were my bo*oy,” she whim- 
pere'ti; “ I brought ’im up by ’and, 1 did, Pol, and he were a nice 
thing, he were.’’ 

” \es,” cried Polly, a tear darting to her eye— a tear of sympathy 
— for this old woman, unlike Miss Belinda, was her real partner in 
sorrow. ” Yes, Robert were what 1 may call a nat’ral gentleman. 
Not one of them 'as is overfed and ’aughty. but a downright straight 
one, with a ’eart of gold and a ’ead fit for a bishop. But there— 
what’s the good of talking, Mrs. Gipps — he stood in the light of 
them as w^as ashamed of him, and they’ve wiped him out, poor 
chap, as you might a insect.” 

” Are you sure of that, Polly W'illiams?” 

“ How can 1 think t’other way, Mrs. Gipps?” 

” Ay, ay, ay! You’ve got the knr ck, you have, Pol, and no win- 
der; but keep the ’air on yer ’ead, young woman, and keep it cool. 
Suppose, my gal, this yere story’s a lie’” 

“ If 1 thought that,” cried Polly, “ I’d go to Ameriky somehow'S 
or other, to satisfy myself; Bless ’ee, Mrs. Gipps, tl'.ey gits across 
the seas in a matter of ten days, as I read in our Sunday’s paper, 1 
did, so it can’t be impossible to find a way somehows over there. A 
gal as ain’t above wmrk ought to be able to earn her ticket and keep. 
Maybe they washes the gentle people’s clothes as they be on tlie 


UKDEK WHICH KIKG? ^67 

voj^age, and if so they must have washerwomen, mustn’t they, Mrs. 
Gipps? I’ve a mind to try it, 1 has.” 

The old woman regarded Polly steadfastly. Then she muttered, 
as one thinking aloud, “ Tut, tut. ’Tain’t no use. She ain’t got 
the grit for that. Besides—” 

” What’s that you’re a-say in’ on?” demanded Polly. “1 ain’t 
got no grit?” 

‘‘ Not for what come into my ’ead, Pol.” < 

And what was that, then. Mm. Gipps?” 

” 1 were a-thinkin’, Pol, that if you was to go to Ameriky you 
might learn the truth.” 

“ Of course 1 might. Of course 1 should, too.” 

” But xlmeriky’s a biggish country, 1 heerd tell. What were the 
name of the town, now, where Robert were took to by them vicked 
willins?” 

” San Frankisko.” 

” Are you sure of that, Pol? Acause ’twouldn’t never do to make 
no mistake.” 

” What do you mean, Mrs. Gipps? Whatever be it you be 
a-drivin’ at?” 

Mm. Gipps, instead of replying, hobbled away, but Polly, follow- 
ing the old woman, walked alongside of her with the air of one who 
would not be repulsed, 

“ What be drivin’ at, mum? Can’t you answer a person?” 

” Bain’t sartain, gal. lou mind your own business, and ]’ll 
mind mine,” 

Polly walked a dozen yards in silence, nettled not a little by this 
curt reply ; then she slowly dropped behind, and turned away with 
a sigh. 

In another minute, however, the voice of the old crone again called 
affer her, and she perceived the bent and rheumatic form of the aged 
widow approaching her, so she retraced her stepl 

” Pol,” gasped Mrs. Gipps, ” it are to be. You’ve made up your 
mind that you’d go arter him to Ameriky or anywhere else, if so be 
as you could. Be that so?” 

” If 1 could, Mrs. Gipps.” 

” Then, Polly, my gal. I’ll do my share. 1 be too old and broken 
to travel miles across the sea. It would kill I, and then the money 
would be throw ’d away. But you’re different. You’re young and 
’earty, and able to face the danger and the toil and all that. You’d 
be perlected,Too, against mischief. I’ll be bound, on account of your 
good looks; besides you’re modest and decent, let alone your bein’ 
in love, which is the best warrant for a gal’s going straight, as 
1 knows on. Well, Pol, .you can go, and, though you mayn’t think 
it, my gal, I’ve got the money for ’ee.” 

” You, Mrs. Gipps?” 

” Yes, gal, me. When IIe.ster Mazebrook carried that there baby 
to m.y cottage to be brought up by ’and, I got a round sum for the 
job from Sir Robert. Tliat I spent. But beyond the weekly nioney^ 
lor the child’s keep, which Hodge paid punctually— he never 
knowed, poor chap, us our Robert weren’t his own flesh and blood, 
for Martha never dared tell him— the foolish feller— ’tis Hodge as I 
means, Pol — he give 1 the twenty pounds Sir Robert paid him. It 


268 


r^fDETl WHICH KING? 

might have been pride as pervehted his keepin’ his master’s money, 
for there weren’t never no love lost betwixt ’em; or it might have 
been gratitude to 1 tor havin’ missed the bo-oy so careful — anyhow, 
Hoi, he brought the money accordin’ to promise, twenty golden 
sovereigns, and I have kep’ ’em all these years for Robert. 1 did 
think. Pol, as 1 might have given them to the poor fellow on his 
weddin’ day, but that weren’t to be. Many’s the lime I’ve been 
templed to dip into them sovereigns for my own needs, but I’d made 
up my mind I’d try the workhouse fust, Pol, and there ain’t one 
of ’em as is touched. 1 be old and failin’, my gal, a long bit o’ the 
wrong side of fourscore. ’Tain’t in natur’ that 1 shall last much 
longer, and if 1 does last the House be good enough for the likes of 
1. So, my gal, you come with me, and I’ll pay the ticket and back 
to A.meriky, with sunimat for whiles along the road, if you be agree- 
able to go."” I 

Polly turned pale for a second only— it was but the surprise— then 
her eyes sparkled, as she whispered, ” Mrs. Gipps, I’ll leave this very 
day. And don’t you go to tell ’em what's become of me,- or they’ll 
set after me quick and bring me back. Don’t tell father, mother, 
Belinda— nobody. If you were to drop so much as a 'int, it ’ud be 
up at the Court in less nor a half hour, and they’d telegraph after 
me~nofear! So, Mrs. Gipps— mum’s the word, please— and you 
trust me to find my way and take care of my skin.” 

The bargain thus hastily struck was as quickly ratified. AVidow 
Gipps extracted from a hole in her chimney the all-precious twenty 
sovereigns, and Polly, having sewed up nineteen of them vvithin the 
lining of her bodice and pocketed the odd one, went home, packed 
up her clothes in a compact bundle, and returning to Mrs. Gipps’s 
all but disused habitation — tor it will be renieinbered the old soul 
was permanently emplo.yed at the Marmyon Arms— borrowed pen, 
ink, and paper. Then she sat down with difficulty to compose a 
valedictory letter to her mother, to be handed to that worthy woman 
after her departure from her old and loved home. 

I his efitusion run thus: 

“Mi dearest Mother,—! du hopes you won’t take on acause 
I’ve goned away. 1 bain’t.goned arter no harm, and it’s the odds 
as I comes back agin, though I be agoin’ a longish journey. Don’t 
go to ast no questions about me, acause it ’tam’t no use, for what 
I’m adoin’ of 1 be adoin’ of my own free will and not nohow at’no- 
body’s instergation. If it warn’t as! be sure, I be, that you aud 
father would worrit, I should not feel the partin’ so bitter as 1 now 
does, but ’tain’t nohow onpossible but as what it may come right in 
the long run, for 1 means to do what’s proper, and be a good girl 
though 1 be away from home, and ’cept ’tis acause 1 leaves without 
a word to no one, you need not never feel ashamed of your lovin’ 
dorter, Polly. 

‘‘ Give a kiss, mother, to the little uns and to father from me if 
q^e’ll have it, and don't go to fret, for indede there bain’t not nothin’ 
to fret about, ’cept ’tis that 1 be a’most crushed by wot 1 heerd about 
Robert. But that won’t make I forgit my dooty, dear mother.” 

It might have been half-past eight the same evening when AVidow 
Gipps knocked gingerly at the door of Shepherd AVilliams’s cottage. 


UNDER AVHierr king? 


^G9 


“ You can come in, whoever )*ou be,” inurmurpcl the sulky voice of 
Mrs. lYilliams. “ Why, bless iny ’eart alive, it it bain’t Mrs. 
Gipps!” 

“ Thank you. Missus Williams, it be, and 1 be for owin’ of an 
apology to you, but ’tain’t my fault neither. Tlie customers at the 
Marmyon Arms come in so thick, and business be that brisk that it’s 
as much as 1 could do to slip away. But 1 do go to confess, mum, 
that your Polly, mum, she — ” 

” Where bo our Polly?” interrupted, curtly, the shepherd’s rather 
rough-tongued spouse. 

‘‘What say?” rejoined judicious Widow Gipps. ‘‘1 be rajdher 
’ard of ’earin’, Mrs. Williams, bein’ well nigh upon four-score-year- 
and-ten.” 

” Where bo our Polly? Be she up with Belinda at the pub.? 1 
thought as them two had split?” 

But Mrs. Gipps, instead of replying to this, began fumbling in 
her pocket, anil at last extracted therefrom both Polly’s epistle and 
a pair of spectacles, together with such trifles as a bodkin, a pen 
knife, and the relics of what once had been a comb, all of which she 
flopped on the table. 

‘‘There it be, Mrs. Williams. That’s the letter as Polly give to 
me, it might a-bin a hour agon, it might a-bin a bit longer. " Any- 
how, she says, says she. Widow Gipps, she says, take that there to 
my mother, she sa 5 ’’s— acause 1 be agoin’ away, or summat of that 
sort, Mrs. Williams. 1 don’t remeniber all the gal said. However, 
you knows all about it, no doubt.” 

“ Goin’ away!” echoed JMrs. Williams, aghast; and in her aston- 
ishment at this communication never offering to open Polly’s letter, 
which lay on the table before her untouched. 

‘‘ Ees, mum, the gal did say as she were agoin’. Got a sitooation, 
1 suppose. With a gentleman’s family, 1 hopes, mum, for the gal’s 
sake, as were always a tavorHe of mine.” 

What Mrs. Williams would have responded to this farrago of 
nonsense may be left to conjecture. At that moment, however, 
from the bar of the Marmyon Arms, where he had been swilling 
with the other rustics, in lurched the shepherd, with something like 
a hiccough, and a rather stupid expression, as of one who, in the 
refined technical parlance of inebriate circles, has ” had his whack.” 

At another moment Juno would have remonstrated with Jupiter 
for his contumacy in pouring his children’s dinners — or the substan- 
tial portion thereof — down his throat. Now, how^ever, the good soul 
was too agitated to nag. Great misfortunes commonly reduce trifles 
to their proper proportion. 

” Father,” said she, gravely, ” our Pol’s gone!” 

” W^ell,” grunted the shepherd. ‘‘ Then — hie— let' her stop there!” 

” But,” shrilled the woman, ‘‘you don’t understand me. Our 
Pol’s gone, ai}d— well, I may as well read her letter. P’r’aps she 
say where she’ve gone to.” o 

“She never bin and drowned herself?” growled the shepherd, 
during the pause consequent on his wife’s attempt to decipher Polly’s 
cacography. 

“No,” faltered Mrs. Williams, “that ain’t it. The gal’s took 
on about Robert, as is but nat’ral, though the fellow have give her 


270 ' UKDER WHICH KIKG? 

the ^^o-by. But she don’t talk about sooercide, nor nuflBn of that, 
in fack, blest if I cau make out what she do mean,” 

“ Here,” muttered Shepherd 'Williams, ” give 1 the letter, wife. 
Women ain't never no good.” 

But it Mrs. Williarns'had obtained an inkling of Polly's drift, the 
honest shepherd, his e 3 ’’esigiit by no means clearer owing to the 
public-house grains of paradise, could not ao as much. Impatiently 
he flung the scrap of paper on the table with : “ Gal’s gone. Where 
to? None of us knows. That’s about it; ain’t it, Widder GippsV” 

‘‘ She said as she were agoin’ away,” remarked that sagacious oc- 
togenarian in response. 

“ It’s all about Robert,” whimpered Mrs. Williams, 

“ Well,” snorted her husband, ” and eggs is eggs and chickens is 
chickens. What be the good of tellin’ 1 that twice two’s tower, 
when 1 knows it aforehand. In coorse, ’tis Robert’s misfortin’ as 
has upset the gal’s head, and made her as wild, 1 be bound, as a 
cow as has lost her calf. But that don't help us. Pol’s took her 
hook, wife, and when a young gal of her looks takes her hook, wh}”- 
— there’s no sajun’.” 

‘‘ No more there ain’<t,” chimed in Mrs. Williams, “ and I wish 
1 knowed where to find her,” 

” I means to have a try,” rejoined Williams. “ To-morrer morn- 
in’ I goes to the Court, and if Sir Robert’s in the mind 1 thinks him 
to be, he’ll mighty soon trace the gal, and send her back home. He 
did ought to, that he did.” 

” It I was you, shepherd,” interposed Mrs. Gipps, “ 1 would not 
go to bother the squire. He might cut up rough.” 

‘‘ No, mum,” rejoined the shepherd, ” he mightn’t, and ’twould 
be silly of him so to do. My supper, wife;” 

V '^And, as we know, the shepherd did lay his information at the 
Court. 


CHAPTER XL. 

MBS. frankalmoign’s FINESSE. 

As may be surmised, the intelligence conveyed to the Court from 
Horace St. Vincent, per Mr. Orphrey, quite obliterated all thought 
of Polly Williams and her destiny. The baronet, true to his theory 
of the first duty of man being to play his part on the stage of life on 
the strict lines of that part, ariaj'ed himself in conventioual sable, 
elongated his visage, and demanded all the outward and visible signs 
of the intensest grief from his dependents. For the nonce, too, he 
and liis wife diopped out of society, and were supposed to indulge 
in the luxury of mourning in strict solitude. But wfiile thus rigor- 
ously observing 'the stern enactments of the social code, Sir Robert 
was the busiest of the busy. The wires kept flying between Mar- 
myon Court and-San Francisco. Every effort was made and no ex- 
pense spared to try and trace the missing heir. The American em- 
bassador, for the time being, at the Court of St. James was im- 
pressed into this service, and the American police and press alike 
were requisitioned. All, however, to no purpose. Not one scintilla 
of evidence could be obtained to show what had become of Robert; 
but Benito swore readily an afiidavit before Judge Potterer,’ to the 


UKDEfl Wllicn KIXG? 

effect that in his judgment the young man must have pciishcd in 
the flames ot the Yatkuma store. 

This affidavit was also further strengthened by an expression of 
opinion on the part ot the English Embas?a(lor at Washington as to 
the account given by BenitO' being verifiable; and, in short, after a 
brief three weeks, both Sir Robert, his wife, and Errol Marmyon 
made up their minds conclusively that Robert was no more, and 
Errol posed as the heir to the title and estate, to tlie very great con- 
tent of his mother, if not of his sire. 

Under the circumstances, that fortune-favored young gentleman 
abandoned all notion of competing for a fellowship, and in fact dis- 
missed study ot all sorts as the badge ot servitude and younger- 
sonsliip. In lieu thereof he plunged into the vortex of dissipation — 
that polite euphemism tor vice— and to keep. the ball rolling had re- ' 
course, after the manner ot his class, to those obliging varnpires, the 
children ot Israel. 

This was necessary. So long as there remained one spark of in- 
certitude as to Robeit’s destiny, the insurance companies would not 
advance a fraction on his reversion. Old Jewry, however, was not 
so disobliging. Old Jewry will always lend on usurious terms, 
more particularly when the risk appears to be little more than nomi- 
nal. 

Errol, by the bye, though he was rapidly developing from the 
sensually brutal into the brutally sensual, was, in matters of busi- 
ness, no fool. He realized quite fully the unwisdom ot plunging to 
any and every tune, and cast about for a heavy loan on ordinary 
terms, offering the City jackals a big commission if some such 
arrangement cohld be negotiated. 

At last a gentleman njimed Squidd, who seemed to spend exist- 
ence in pacing the streets of the metropolis at racing speed, called 
on him at the Parrurge Club, with the pleasing intelligence that a 
client of a personal friend of his happened to have the sum of 
£50,000 to invest at eight per cent., and might he manipulated. 

Errol remarked, soito wc«,^iat eight was as great an improvement 
on eighty as thous. were on tens, and forthwith champagned the 
aforesaid Squidd into confidence, the upshot being an appointment 
to meet the principal’s solicitor, Mr. Hubble. 

The api>oiatment came off at the office ot that limb ot the law in 
Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Mr. Squidd condescending to assist by his 
presence. As thus : 

Mr. Squidd, waving his hand at Errol: “This, Mr. ’Ubble, is 
the gentleman 1 named for the £50,000. Mr. H’errol Marmyon, 
Mr. ’Enry ’Ubble. Mr. ’Enry ’Ubble, Mr. H’errol 3larmyon.’’ 

Mr. Hubble, after a three minutes’ stare: “ Y'es.” 

Mr. Squidd, apologetically: “ I thought it advisable, Mr. ’Ubble, 
to bring Mr. Marmyon on, in order to save time, and to enable him 
to state bis own case.” 

Mr. Hubble, suddenly awaking as from a charmed dream: 

“ I’es. Pray be seated, sir. My old friend, Mr, — What’s your 
name? 1 forget.” 

Mr. Squidd, interpolating: “Squidd.” 

Mr. Hubble: “ Ah, yes, of course; 1 shall forget my own namd 
next. My old friend, Squish—” 


272 


UXDEii 


WlllOil 


KliS^G? 


Mk. Squidd, aggrievedly: “Squidcl.” 

Mil. Hubble, coutinuing, “ Squidd, of course. Squidd told me, 
sir, that you wished to raise a certain sum, on your reversionary in- 
terest, and it so happens that 1 am acquainted with the facts of the 
case, not only through the press, but more particularly owing to in- 
formation received from a lady who, 1 may say, is not a client of 
mine, but with whom 1 have had business transactions.” 

EimoL, with an interested air: ‘‘ And who, mayl ask, is this lady 
who knows all about my affairs?” 

Mr. Hubble: “ 1 ought not, perhaps, to mention names, but as 
1 have an appointment to keep, and time is an object to me to day, 
1 will be frank. 1 allude, sir, to Mrs. Frankalmoign, Now, Mr. 
Errol Marmyon, to come to the point, your security rests on the 
presumption tiiat your elder brotlier has ceased to exist. I'liere is 
no proof forthcoming of , that. Ergo, sir, your security per se is 
not rvorth a brass nail, and I couldn’t advfse a client to lend on it. 
But, sir, wdiile there is no proof of your liaving an absolute rever- 
sionary interest in the Marmyon estate, there exists a strong proba- 
bility, approximating to a certainty, that you will inherit should you 
survive your father. Under the circumstances 1 could arrange for 
the advance of £50,000 — but only on one condition.” 

Errol: “ Name it.” 

Mr. Hubble: ‘‘That Mrs. Frankalmoign becomes your surety. 
You start, Mr. Errol. There is, however, no need for coheealment. 
1 believe— that is to say, 1 wull undertake — that Mrs. Frankalmoign 
shall do this. Being in that lady’s confidence, i may tell jmu that 
she entertains an ambition of her own — a very natural one, jierhaps, 
for a mother. It is, in plain English, that her only child shall marry 
well — rank, money, and all the rest of it. You have, therefore, 
only to settle terms with the lady and, of course, the daughter, and 
— well, sir, the business caif he completed in a few hours.” 

Mr. Bquidd: ” Business-like that, Mr. H’errol?” 

Errol, with r smile: ‘‘1 thought Mrs. Frankalmoign was in 
Paris,” 

Mr. Hubble: ” She is at present residing at 118 Berkeley Street, 
Mayfair. AX least she was there yesterday/’ 

FIrrol, rising: “ Thanks. You shall hear from me as soon as 1 
have seen her. Yes, JMr. Squidd, this does sound like business. 
Good-morning, gentlemen.” 

As soon as he left the lawyer’s office, Flrrol chartered a cab, and 
drove with all speed to Berkeley Street. It was a little after noon, 
so that he felt tolerably sure of finding the gay widow chez lui, 
though whether he would be admitted was more a matter for con- 
jecture, ladies of her type being invisible before luncheon. He was 
admitted, and presently Mrs. Frankalmoign put in an appearance, 
looking, as he fancied, older and rather worried withal. 

‘‘ So,” cried she, ‘‘ 1 must congiatulate you! Wlio wmuld have 
imagined that the chapter of accidents was going to end in this way? 
Well, Ida will be charmed to see you when you care to call.” 

‘‘ Isn’t she in towm?” inquired Errol. 

‘‘ Oh yes. But just now she is in the arms of her w.odisie. I 
think you will find her improved. 1 ought not to say so, but really 


UKDER WHICH KIiq-G? 273 

she is quite the prettiest girl of the season, though not a leLle, clou’t 
you know?” 

Errol smiled. “ If she be not kind to me, what care’l how fair 
she be?” he muttered, half in soliloquy. 

” Oh!” replied Mrs. Frai^almoign, archly, “ but you were always 
a prime favorite.” 

” By the bye,” remarked Errol, ” 1 met this morning one of your 
satellites, a lawyer named Hubble; rather a clever man, 1 thouirht. 
Am I right?” 

” Oh yes; Mr. Hubble is very shrewd. He is not my lawyer, but 
1 had to consult him about some business matters of my poor hus- 
band.” 

‘‘Yes. I want the man to raise the wind for me. Of course I’m. 
speaking in confidence.” 

” 1 should think,” replied the lady demurely, ‘‘ he was quite able 
to facilitate any such arrangement.” 

‘‘ He says he can do it, but on terms only.” 

“ Yvliat terms, my dear Errol?” and the diplomatic lady came and 
set herself by him on the sofa. 

‘‘ Well, to be frank, he dragged you into the affair.” 

” Dragged me?” 

‘‘ Y'es. He will make me the adv^ance, so he says, and on very 
reasonable conditions, too; but he wants you to be a party to the 
transaction. Let nee explain. He knows, or has got to know, 
somehow, that I once upon a time set my heart on Ida, and that Ida 
— ahem — was disposed to favor my suit, even when 1 was not a 
highly eligible pajii. Consequently, he seems to have hit upon a 
sort of idea that everything — pecuniary, matrimonial, and legal- 
might be arranged simultaneously.” 

” To be perfectly candid,” responded Mrs. Frankalmoign, after a 
slight pause, ‘‘ 1 must plead guilty to a little surreptitious mateh- 
making. As you know, 1 am, and have been for some years past, a 
peraona grata at Marmyon, and the alliance would be acceptable to 
me. 1 wish it, Errol. 1 will do all 1 can, too, it you wish it, to 
forward it. But — ” ' 

” What is the hitch?” 

‘‘ Ida does not quite know her own mind. Six months ago you 
came, you saw, you conquered, and you lost. Don’t blame me for 
that; blame yourself. Y"ou will now have to revive those first im- 
pressions, and perhaps at some disadvantage, for Ida has seen other 
faces besides yours, and, though she is free, still she has a will of 
her own.” 

” She wilTnot refuse me.” 

‘‘ I hope not. But now about this loan. What is the amount 
you are anxious to borrow?” 

” Fifty thousand.” 

‘‘ A very large sum. Too large, my friend, for prudence.” * 

” It pays my debts; it gives me funds in hand; it relieves me of 
the necessity of lx)rrowing again.” 

” Quite so. But, Errol, there is a certain risk about suretyship 
which 1 do not half relish. 1 will do this, however; I will Ixxome-^ 
your surety, but you must deposit half the amount with my bankers^ 


^>74 


DKDEE WHICH KIHG? 


until Idsi and you have actually agreed to join your fate; perhaps I 
had belter put it, until the knot is tied/’ 

Errol pondered for a moment. It occurred to his recollection 
that, on his return to England, Horace .St. Vincent wouhl want 
money; possibly a large amount, and that to break faith with that 
very unscrupulous accomplice of his would be rather risky. Granted 
that he might demur to handing over a large sum tiirproof was 
adduced ot Kobert being no more, still in an}’' event Horace would 
demand plunder, and must have it. He felt a trille bamboozled, 
and was at a loss for a reply. 

“ 1 can not vary those terms,” remarked the widows with a sin- 
gularly disagreeable expression in an eye that once had been lus- 
trous. “ 11 1 hold a substantial guarantee of your honorable inten- 
tions toward my daughter, 1 am content to incur liability, ot which 
my friends would not approve. If, ot course, Ida should reject your 
suit, that is another aftair altogether, and 1 shall be prepared to re- 
lease your money subject to a bond safeguarding myself. But Ida 
Is not to be pressed. You must give her all the time she -asks for. - 
and, so long as she does not absolutely and irrevocably refuse, you 
must be content to wait and hope. Am 1 clear?” 

“ Quite, except on one point. Is this sum of £25,000 to be paid 
to your bankers by way of deposit, or to your private account?” 

“ To my private account. You wish me to confide in you and 
become your surety; in return you will have to confide in me.” 

” 1 understand,” drawled Errol, rather dubiously, the notion. of 
half his cake being subtracted being much the reverse of consoling. 

“ And if Ida should say ‘ No,' then I’m to have the money?” 

“ And it she says ‘ Yes ’ you can also have it — in the vestry of St. 
George’s, Hanover Square. Y’'ou see, my dear Errol, I am perfectly 
cool and business-like. 1 wish my daughter to be Lady Alarmyon, 
and 1 know before she consents that there must be something like 
a struggle, inasmuch as you have foolishly damaged your chances. 

1 must, therefore, endeavor to prevent your being dashed by a first 
repulse, which, I may own, 1 fully anticipate. 1 must take the 
strongest guarantee for your steady perseverance. That in fine is as 
^mucli of my hand as 1 care to show. Y'ou may guess the rest, if 
you can, my dear Errol.” 

Errol smiled. He thought he could; but he couldn’t; and he went 
away, having clinched a bargain that gave the artful widow the 
very leverage she wanted— a balance at her bankers. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

*‘nUBBLE-BUBBLE. ” 

Ekbol remained in town for a fortnight, calling frequently at 
Berkeley Street, and paying assiduous court to the fair Ida. That 
young lady somewhat studiously and dexterously avoided tete-ti-tete 
interviews, yet seemed so he thought, rather inclined to meet him 
halt way. He realized, however, how thorougnly the simple girl 
ot the previous autumn had been metamorphosed into the self-pos- 
sessed drawing-room beauty. Nature in her case was slowly de- 


- _ UNDER WHICH KING? 275 

veloping into art, and whereas she had once been a toy in his 
hands, he now felt himself to be rather a plaything in hers. 

Mr. Hubble, as is the way with his profession, could not possibly 
bestir himself. He bad assured Errol that the matter would be easily 
arranged in a few hours. This limit, however, represented much 
more than a few da 3 's, and might also have been termed a few 
weeks. Nevertheless, pending the completion of arrangements, the 
judicious lawyer supplied our gay plunger with funds, which for 
the purposes "of baccarat at the Panurge, and other even less men- 
tionable delights, were then much in request*. 

At last, however, the hour was appointed for completion, and, ac- 
companied by Mrs. Frankalmoign, he drove up to the lawyer’s office 
in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. 

Mr. Hubble appeared fussy. The clerks appeared fussy. Tele- 
gi’aph boys came bowling in, and clients also, who insisted urgently 
on being allowed five minutes, not more, of Mr. Hubble’s time. In 
fact, the waiting-room into which the lady and gentleman were 
ushered savored much of pandemonium, so much so that Errol felt 
bothered and bamboozled, impatient and irritable. 

That, perchance, was the precise result contemplated by the law- 
yer, who purposely kept them dancing attendance, till one at all 
events could have relieved his mind considerably had there been the 
slightest opening for full-flavored diction. No such opportunity 
occurring, he avenged himself on his nails and mustache, gnawing 
each of those parasites with fine impartiality. 

Eventually Mr. Squidd entered an appearance, and then, after a 
brief delay, ail three were ushered into Mr. Hubble’s sanctum. 

“ The business,” commenced the lawyer, nervously cracking 
what appeared to be an acre of parchment turned over at the bottom 
— “the business, Mr. Marmyon, is now complete, subject only to 
5 mur signature, or rather signatures, and that of Mrs. Frankalmoign. 
The amount in the gross, you are aware, is £50,000. That repre- 
sents the corpus of the loan. Of that lump sum, by your direction 
£25,000 has to be paid over to Mrs. Frankalmoign, who in return 
gives an undertaking to repay the same first, on her daughter’s 
marriage to you; or, secondly, in the event of the said daughter 
contracting a marriage with a third party.” 

” Or,-’ interrupted Errol, ‘‘ in the event of the young lady posh 
fively refusing to marry me?” 

” 1 think sir,” remarked the lawyer, “ that the clause you sug- 
gest would not be operative in equity. On the terms of the agree- 
rnent you are sufficiently protected.” 

Errol bowed, though he bit his lip, and Mr. Hubble proceeded ore 
rotunda, 

” You will, therefore, by way of preliminary sign an authoriza- 
tion to me to pay over the sum to Mrs. Frankalmoign. You have also 
to authorize me to pay Mr. Squidd the percentage of one and a 
quarler per cent, for negotiating this loan, and a similar sum to me 
tor carrying it through. The law-charges amount to £181 2«. M. 
On your signing these authorizations together with the bond to 
the lender, Mr. Moseson, of Houndsditch, I am prepared to hand 
3 'ou a check for the balance.” ^ 

” What is the balance?” inquired Errol, reddening. 


276 


TODER WHICH KIHG? 

. “£23,568 17s. 

“ Upon my lionoii’' 

“ Well, sir, and what, pray, is your objection?” 

“ 1 think the charge for negotiation excessive.” 

Had Errol at that moment been gazing at Mrs. Frankalmoign in. 
stead ot the lawyer he would have felt alarmed. The blood fled 
from her cheek and lips, her dress heaved, and she looked as though 
she must inevitably faint. Fortunately for her his eyes were fo- 
cused in wrath on Messrs. Hubble and Uquidd, nor did he notice 
the signal she passed behind his back. 

“ We have charged you in commission,” said Mr. Hubble, quietly 
— that is to say, Mr. Squidd and 1— only two and a half per cent. 
Do you object?” 

“It's heavy black-mail,” rejoined Errol. 

“ Of course,” observed Mr. Hubble, “ if you prefer it, the com- 
mission can be included as a separate charge on your reversionary 
interest, but in that case it would have to carry compound interest.” 

“ 1 should prefer that arrangement.” 

“ Very good, sir. Then if you .give me a letter to that effect, 1 shall 
only have to deduct the hundred and eighty-one odd for law- 
charges.” 

“Certainly.” 

“ You had better perhaps sign these various documents first, and 
you can write the letter afterward from my clerk’s dictation. We 
must not detain Mrs. Frankalmoign unnecessarily, and she has to 
sign after you. May 1 — ahem — therefore suggest that — ” 

“All right,” said Errol, who felt cross and nettled, under the 
impression that the lawyer and agent had combined to trick him. 
“ Here, where am 1 to sign, if you please?” 

There was not much difficulty in showing him, his signature al- 
ready being outlined in pencil, so he scribbled his autograph, de- 
clared he made delivery by his act and deed, and then turning to 
Mrs. Frankalmoign remarked for the first time how very pale and 
agitated she was. 

“ 1 am afraid,” he murmured, considerately, “ that the heat of 
this office oppresses jmu. 1 suppose we shall be able to go directly.” 

“It is hot,” mutttered Mr. Hubble, who was writing checks 
hard and fast. “ But we need not keep you, Mrs. Fi^nkalmoign, 
more than a minute longer. Kindly sign there — wiiere your name 
is outlined. Thank you. Here is your clieck, and, Mr. Errol 
IVIarmyon, here is yours. Mow, madam, pray let me see you into 
your carriage at once.” 

“ Thanks,” said the lady, more composedly; adding, with a glance 
of sw'eet satisfaction, to Errol, “Will you come? I think I must 
ask for your arm, I feel a little — ahem! all-overish, don’t jmu 
know?” 

EiTol, rather flustered, hurried forward with her to her brougham, 
took his seat beside. her, and at her request they drove off together, 
leaving the coast clear. 

“ Well, Squidd,” remarked Mr. Hubble, “ that w’as as near as a 
toucher, and it just shows the utter tomfoolery of being too grasp- 
ing. The ^jelvet paw is very well, but to show your claw's— that’s 
the dooce! The old gal’s fly.. See her turn pale when she thought 


UKDEE WTIICH KTl^G? 

the young donkey was going to kick over the whole hag of tricks? 
My! It was ninety-nine to a hundred she’d make a clean taint of it. 
But she didn’t, and she played ounxards for us well.’’ 

“ But,” observed Mr, Squidd, in reply, “what about my com- 
mission? 1 trust to you, ’Ubble, you know.” 

“ Why, you dufter, didn’t you twig that the old gal signaled to_ 
me to deduct it from her tw^enty-five thou.? And 1 gave her a 
check drawn according. Will you have. your money now, Squidd, 
or wait till next settlin’ day?” 

“Thank ’ee, ’Ubble,” replied Mr. Squidd, meekly, “1 don’t 
mind if 1 ’as it on the nail.” 

And so Mr. Hubble wrote the check, and Mr. Squidd not only, 
pocketed it, but invited his legal friend to a sumptuous luncheon at 
the Holborn Restaurant, an invitation cordially ac^pted, the law- 
yer remarking: that he’d done enough business for one day. 

Over the Holborn champagne, too, Mr. Hubble waxed confiden- 
tial. “ That young feller Marmyon/’ whispered he, with a nervous 
glance at the listening waiter, “is nasty-dispositioned, but he’s not 
fly. He never had the wit to see that Mrs, Frankalmoign didn’t 
sign the bond, and he never troubled to read what she did sign. He 
thinks she’s liable for that there entire fifty thousand. Bur she’s 
not, Squidd — not for a penny of it. The document she signed, 
my boy, was an undertaking to see me safe, in the event of Moses- 
on, the tender, coming on me for recommending him a reversion- 
ary security that was invalid. That’s the w’orst possible. And it’s 
not likely to give tier, or me either, much trouble, forMoseson knows 
the facts, and he’s amply secured by insurances.” 

“ ‘Ubble,” gurgled Squidd, “ you are a genius. With j’^our tal- 
ents, ’Ubble, a man might be anything — Prime-minister, Archbishop 
of Oanterhury, Poet-Laureate, Lord Chancellor, President of the 
Royal Academy. 1 wish I w'as you.” 

* * * * * * * 

“Mother,” remarked Errol, the day following, he having been 
summoned to the domestic hearth to" consult with his sire on the 
erection of some new farm buildings — “ mother, do you happen to 
know who Mrs. Frankalmoign was before she was married?” 

“ Well, my dear, that’s rather an awkward question. Mrs. 
Frankalmoign is very nice, and of course she had the good luck to 
marry a man of family and fortune. But she wuis not altogether, 
at starting, anybody at all — in fact she was nobody.” 

“ Yes,” replied her son; “ but, being nobody, she must have had 
some sort of a name. And that's what 1 want to arrive at. She 
couldn’t have been quite anonymous.” 

“ Oh, her name! Well, 1 don’t know why that should interest 
you, even supposing you happen to cherish designs on Ida. But, to 
be candid, 1 have foi^otten her name, though 1 certainly must have 
heard it. Her husband, you know, insisted on her dropping her low 
relations.” 

“ Were they low?” 

“ Why, of course, Robert,” addressing the baronet-, who w'as 
buried deep in the “ Morning Post “ Robert, what was Mrs. 
Frankalmoign’s maiden name?” 

“Er— ah, 1 er— ah— ought to know— Bumble? Ho, that w'asn’t- 


5>T8 TJKBEll WHICH KING? 

it. Trouble? No; not quite that. But an odd out-of-the-way 
name of that sort. ” 

“ It wasn’t Hubble?” gasped Errol, almost shivering, 

“Hubble? Yes, yes. £r— ah. That was the name, Errol. But 
■why do you ask?” 

“ Oh, nothing, nothin^ father!” 

“ 1 taiic}",” slyly insinuated Lady Marmyon, “that Errol has re- 
vived \u% penchant for Ida. Eh, Errol?” 

“ Well, really, mother, 1 don’t know. Perhaps 1 have. Perhaps 
1 haven’t. Ida is very pretty, and has got beyond the bread-and- 
butter stage now; indeed, in respect of style, you couldn’t wish for 
anything better. But — ” 

“And what is the ‘but,’ my dear boy?” inquired the baronet, 
whose ears were suddenly all attention, 

“Well,” laughed Errol, “ the ' but ’ represents informally the 
traditional slip ’twixt cup and lip. 1 may admire Ida Frankal- 
moign, yet it doesn’t follow that the girl cares a rush about me. 
Varium et mutabile semper feemina, which 1 will translate for my 
mother’s benefit as ‘ ladies is fickle.’ ” 

“ You don’t mean to tell me,” drawled my lady, “ that Ida would 
refuse you? Kef use, 1 mean, your chances?” 

“ No,” replied Errol, “ I don’t. But, my dear mother, knowing 
the geography as 1 do, of tnalmysterious— not to say idyllic— region, 
1 am equally doubtful as to whellier she would accept me.” 

“ But — er ah,” snapped Sir Bobert, “she must do either one or 
the other. There is no middle course.” 

“ Well, father,” rejoined that hopeful scion of aristocracy, “ I 
am inclined to offer you long odds. You are, of course, a man of 
the world, with large and varied experience. 1 ^am barely out of 
leading-strings, imherbis juvenis and all that sort of thing. But if 
you were a betting man, I’d -w^ager you a hundred to one in hundreds 
that Ida Frankalmoign will not refuse me and will not accept me.” 

“ Preposterous nonsense!” grunted Sir Robert, with a snort of in- 
dignation to his “ IMorning Post.” 

“ And, Errol,” added my lady, in her most musical of tones, “ re- 
member that—* faint heart never won fair lady.’ ” 

“ It’s not a question of heart, or of fairness either, for the matter 
of that, mother,” rejoined the young gentleman. 

Which deliverance being hopelessly enigmatical, he enjoyed the 
luxury of the last word. 


CHAPTER XLll. 

THE OPTATIVE MOOD. 

It may seem surprising that the man who for nearly a quarter of 
a ceptury wms regarded as heir-apparent to the Marmyon baronetcy 
and Marmyon acreage should have dropped so completely into ob- 
scurity. This result was partly, though not entirely, to be attributed 
to the disposition and temper of the man himself, yet not altogether. 
Plantagenet, alter the first burst of bitter disappointment, which 
caused him to long lor an absolute but not very agreeable efface- 
ment, a disappointment which wounded the sentiment of self-esteem 


•» 

UNDER WHICH KING? 279 

largely cleveloDcd in his composition, owing to the toadyism which 
had followed him from hisxradle, would in his secret soul have not 
unwillingly closed with the baronet’s offer to make him bis adopted 
son. But there were two barriers which intervened. First, Lady Mar- 
myon, who regarded him with aversion; secondly, Eirol. who‘ hated 
him. The mother and son rendered his acceptance of Sir Kobert’s 
magnani raous offer out of the question, and condemned him to play 
the ungracious parfr of the churl. 

Hence the spirit aroused in this big, generous fellow’s bosom by 
their unhandsome and unmerited hostility was not altogether unlike 
that of revenge. He felt that his life-long intimacy with his quasi- 
mother and quasi-brother had borne nothing more profitable than 
Dead Sea fruit, and he registered a secret resolve that he would 
square with both to the utmost of his ability sooner or later. 

It was this feeling of injury that induced him to take steps, with- 
out Sir Robert’s knowledge or assent, to secure for the true heir, 
whom he had supplanted, the certainty of his rights. By his in- 
structions an eminent firm of Parliamentary solibitors commenced 
the preparation of a private bill on his petition for the establishment 
of Robert Marmyon’s claim, and the business had already advanced 
so far that it would have been necessary to communicate with Sir 
Robert Marmyon, and to secure his co-operation, when the news- 
papers announced the death of the said heir with full -details of the 
conflagration of the 'i'atkuma store, in order to verify the announce- 
ment. 

Plantagenet in his lonely lodgings at Brixton sat down and pon- 
dered. He knew Horace St. Vincent. He knew Captain Dolopy. 
He did not know Judge Potterer, Imt was able to form a shrewd 
guess as to the man’s character. Putting, therefore, two and two 
together, he perceived at once that there was an antecedent probability 
of foul play. He saw at a glance that Robert had been sent off to 
one of the rowdiest corners of the globe in the company of a brace 
of the most unscrupulous of adventurers, and he formed his own 
conclusions, the sole qualification thereunto being the utter impos- 
sibility of Sir Robert being constitued a party to any act of dishonor, 
not to say crime. If Robert from a brief acquaintance had acquired 
an implicit belief in the baronet, Plantagenet, who knew the man’s 
virtues as well as his foibles and pettinesses, could not bring him- 
self to imagine evil of one whom he both loved and respected. Yc*"' 
there was the stern logic of fact staring him in the face, and he ac- 
cepted it with this proviso, evolved from that portion of his inner 
consciousness, yclept common-sense, that Errol had somehow mani- 
pulated and pulled the wires, leading up to this fatal and cruel 
result. 

He was chewing the cud of extreme bitterness at the bare thought 
of Errol — Errol, his enemy; Errol, the man whd had loaded him 
wdth insult; Errol, who had stood originally between him and the girl 
he loved— inheriting all that he once" imagined would be his, when, 
as it liappened, he received an unexpected call from an unwelcome 
visitor. 

He had been, as has been said, musing over his pipe after break- 
fast, when the loathsome Abigail— eeremoni^-— ushered in a 
biggish man with a cavernous mouth— very wide open indeed. 


280 UITDER WHICH KIHG? 

“ Sir,” said tbe mouth, you may remember me. Wo have met 
twice before along the road of life. On the first occasion our inter- 
view on the green of Marmyon village resulted in a shindy, and you, 
I regret to observe, still sufier from the results. On the next occa- 
sion we met on rather unpleasant terms in the Marmyon Arms. To- 
day, sir, 1 intrude upon you, but not in th<? guise of a foe. My 
name, sir, is Hercules Flaymar, and 1 have the honor to be the 
president of the Central Democratic Leverage Union.” 

” 1 remember you,” replied Plantagenet, bluntly. ” Well, what 
do you want with me?” 

‘‘ In the first instance, sir, if you will permit me, I should be glad 
to take a seat. Thanlv you ” — in response to Plantagenet’s indica- 
tion of a chair. ” Next, 1 come to consult you on a matter of busi- 
ness. Yes, sir, business, very much business.” 

“ Drive on, my good chap.” 

” My business must develop itself by degrees. You may have seen 
in the papers the account of the tragic end of a young man well 
known to me; a young man in whose welfare 1 and my associates 
of the Union took the warmest interest. 1 allude, sir, to the party 
as jockeyed you out of your right ful inheritance, the late Robert 
Hodge.” 

” What!” ejaculaed Plantagenet, springing to his feet like one 
who has received an electric shock. 

” You are surprised, sir. Y"ou have, however, to hear yet more 
that will astonish, and perhaps disgust you. 1 shall not hesitate in 
this matter to do my duty, be the consequences what they may, and 
1 shall look to you for some sort of recognition. 1 mean, of course, 
in a practical f6rm. 1 am conversing, sir, 1 am fully aw’^are, with a 
gentlemtm of a chivalrous, noble, and honorable spirit, and 1 have 
every confidence that any service 1 may be able to render will be — ” 

” Oh, of course, see what you mean. If you can aid me, in any 
way, 1 must pay. lhat goes without the saying; so, if you please, 
proceed.” 

” 1 take you at your word,” muttered Hercules Flaymar, in his 
normal theatrical style. ” Therefore, sir, forthwith, without further 
preface, 1 will now state in plain language the plain fact that brings 
me here to-day. You, Mr. Plantagenet ]\larmyon, are Sir Robert 
Marmyon’s eldest son and heir. 1 repe;it, sir, you are the heir, and 
Robert Hodge was f he impostor. You smile incredulously. Defer 
your smiles, Mr. Plantagenet, till you have heard my evidence, or 
rather the evidence 1 am able to adduce.” 

“lam listening.” 

‘‘ That poor fellow, now no more, Robert Hodge, was not the 
author of the conspiracy to defraud you of your inheritance. It was 
not much in his nature to conspire. But his mother, that fat old 
woman at the Marmyon Arms, since deceased, concocted the entire 
plan, with the aid of certain local witnesses, and it was fathered by 
one who was never your very warm friend, being himself anxious to 
stand in your shoes, your brother Errol. That you will say is all 
assertion. Stop though, don't be hasty. It may be assertion, but 
the whole truth was evolved from the lips of Robert Hodge himself. 
He it was who confided it to myself, and the solicitor of the Union, 
Mr. Ferretman, under an oath of secrecy. Of course, if he had lived, 


UiTDEIl ^VHICII KIKG? 281 

if he had not been, as 1 suspect, led into the fatal trap by the machi- 
nations of Mr. Errol Marnivon, who, hav^ing ousted you, was not 
going to allow another to stand in his light, then my lips must have 
remained sealed. The death of Robert Hodge relieves me of a load 
on my conscience. It enables me to come and offer you the assist- 
ance of myself, and my good friend Ferretman, to obtain your own. 
Pir, Ihc whole storj^ of Martha Hodge about your being a supposi- 
titious child was a base and transparent fabiication. It'imposed on 
you and on your father, but on no one else. It could not deceive 
your mother, Lady Marmyon — albeit her preference for your brother 
caused her to join forces with the low, ignorant perjurers who 
sought to dispossess you. Had you nailed your colors to the mast 
and remained firm, nobody could have touched you. Martha Hodge, 
under cross-examination, must have broken down. Tour precipita- 
tion, therefore, was most unwise. ‘ As Robert said in my hearing to 
Ferretman, ‘ To think of a man of his soft chucking up the sponge 
without striking a blow!’ But, sir, now you have an inkling of the 
trick you have been served, in justice to yourself, I may say, in 
•justice to deluded Sir Robert Marmyon, you ought to assert your 
incontestable tights.” 

Plantagenet took up his pipe, lighted it slowly, and began to smoke 
— and thrnk. At last he muttered, sotto wee, ” Tour contention rests 
on the basis that Martha Hodge was a willful deceiver, and that she 
did not regard me as her son?” 

‘‘ hiot on that, sir, altogether. Rather on Robert’s confession that 
his mother involved him in this plot.” 

” Quite so. But the gist of the whole business turns on the truth 
or falsehood of Martha Hodge. Now, Mr. Flay mar. suppose 1 
meet you flat with an assertion that I have reason for believing im- 
plicitly in the honesty of that same woman?” 

” You cannot get over Robert’s own words!” 

“ Nor Martha Hodge’s own acts. Are you aware that just before 
her death that poor woman, from sheer motives of affection, offered 
me a large sum?” ^ 

” Impossible. She hadn’t it to offer. She died poor and in debt 
— at letist, 1 beg your pardon, unless 1 am to infer that.j^ou accepted 
her offer.” 

” Of course 1 did not. You, 1 see, anticipated that. But she had 
money — a round sum. What became o‘f it?” 

“ She had a pot of money!” echoed Flaymar, jn a whisper of in- 
tense astonishment, ” and she died suddenly, or was found dead by 
the roadside, and — by Heaven, I see it all!” 

” What do you see, Mr. Flaymar?’-’ 

” Something I’d rather not have seen, sir. But, no matter. You 
cannot account for Martha Hodge pressing her money upon you, 
except on the supposition that you v.’ere her son? Y.ou will pardon 
my saying, as a man of the world, thal 1 should adopt the contrary 
conclusion.” 

” How so?” 

“ Simply this. Martha did you as great a wrong as any human 
being could do another, short of murder. She robbed you of your 
parents' your title, your estate. She effected this by a tissue. of lies. 
Can you wonder that when she saw you debased, and ruined l)y her 


282 


UNDEH WHICH KIHG? 


deceit, that she should have been pricked by conscience? Can you 
wonder tiiat sh(j tried, having done the mischief, to make what at- 
touement lay in her power? Faugh, sir! Ihe motive of the wo- 
man’s oiler is as plain as a pikestalF.” 

“Her manner,” talteied Plantagenet, “pointed the other way. 
She was not actress enough to feian parental sentiment — at least, 1 
tancy not.” 

“ You’d better avoid giving the verdict, the second time, against 
yourself,” said Flaymar, with an air of strong conviction. “ You’d 
be a wiser man if you’d read the notes Ferretinan made of his conver- 
sation, conducted in my presence,' with Kot)ert. Above all, let me 
emphasize the final revelation I have to make, which is this: Eob- 
ert stated, sir, to us two as witnesses, not only w^hat, in brief, 1 have 
now advised you of, but further, he requested us, in the event of 
anything happening to him, to make use of his declaration for your 
benefit, and to prevent Errol from inheriting in your stead. Huw, 
sir, that' is all.” 

And Mr. Hercules Flaymar, having mouthed his speech to his sat- 
isfaction, rose with much dignity of manner to depart. 

“ I’ll think over what you say,” answered Plantagenet. “ But I 
don’t admit it. Mind that. 1 tell you this, JMr. "Flaymar, that 
there is only one man who could convince me of the accuracy of 
your statement, and he is not likely to speak.” 

“You don’t mean Sir Eobeit, surely?” 

“ Decidedly not. 1 mean Robert— be he Marmyon, or be he 
Hodge. If he could corroborate you, 1 would fight for my lights 
like a tiger. Good-day to you, sir.” 

“ 1 will leave my name and address,” remarked the portentous 
President of the Central Democratic Leverage Union, rather 
chagrined at this termination to their interview. And it you will 
allow me also, 1 will ’’—fumbling in his pocket— “ also leave the 
copy of Ferretman’s deposition. You can peruse it at youi leisure, 
and' should you require ^iny further information he and 1 are equally 
at you service.” 

“ As you like, sir. Y"es, you may as yrell leave me Mr. Ferret- 
man’s document. Thanks.” 

“ And, sir,” added Hercules, with his hand on the door, “ you’ll 
bear (his in mind, that if you utilize and profit by the information 
we afford, we shall expect to be compensated on a very liberal scale, 
a very liberal scale indeed, sir. Is that understood between us?” 

“ idiat proviso, Mr. Flaymar,” replied Plantagenet, coldly, “is 
just what throws cold water on the whole story. However, for the 
present, enough.” 

And he turned his bacli on the gentleman with the cavernous 
mouth, who accordingly perforce retired with a certain sense of 
ignominy. 

Then Plantagenet returned to his bird’s-eye and his thoughts, 
neither did be condescend so much as to notice Mr. Ferretman’s 
voluminous depositions, which remained on the table lor the sub- 
sequent inspection of the loathsome Abigail and the artful landlady 
of these seedy apartments. His conviction remained that the law- 
yer, no less than Flaymar himself, lied, and lied for a purpose. 
Nevertheless, the memory of this interview haunted him. It was 


UXDER WHICH KIKG? 383 

a bitter thought that after all Errol would be the king in Marmyon. 
He could have endured to witness the uncultured yet honest 
sovereignty of Robert, erst Hodge, and in most respects to the end 
of the chapter more Hodge than Maimyon. But Errol represented 
to his mind the recluct'io ad abmrdum of the hereditary principle. 
He regarded the man as an unmitigated scoundrel, for whom hang- 
ing itself was too good; and he would with joy and gladness have 
contested his claim could he but have persuaded himself that his 
own counter claim was valid. Subh persuasion, however, was be- 
yond the powers of a Flaymar or a Ferretman— indeed, he could 
have sworn on the Gospels that Martha fflodge ^vas no perjurer, but 
to the last, after her revelation had once oeen made, a true woman. 

His mood, however, was, as will hereafter appear, to a certain 
extent, the parent of his future action. Morning, npon, and night the 
thought haunted him, “Can it be that after all I am the rightful 
heir?'’ He scorned the thought, he scoffed at it, he ridiculed it, he 
reviled it as a base deception. He philosophized about it, and meu' 
tally bade sleeping dogs lie, and pleaded the fatuity of cherishing 
silly illusions. But, for all his worldly wisdom, and all his philoso* 
phy, and all his vigorous manly sense, he could not shake it off. It 
awoke with the dawn. It followed him as he walked abroad, ft 
presented itself in the night-watches. It caused him to curse I'lay- 
mar, and to wish with all his soul that Robert would come to life 
again, and himself depose to the truth, whatever the truth might be. 

One morning he was leaving his door, when a well-dressed indi- 
vidual came up to him, raised his hat and said, “ Have 1 the honor to 
address Mr. Plantagenet Hodge?” 

Plantagenet looked at him. He seemed to be a gentleman and 
spoke like one, bar this, that his accent was nasal, and ho emphasized 
the ultimate syllable in a strange %vay. 

“ The same, sir,” he replied, carelessly. 

“ Well, Mr. Plantagenet Hodge. Then, sir, 1 have the honor to 
inform you that 1 am" a partner in the firm of Mackcstrey, of New 
York, 1 am, sir, their London agent, and 1 have been advised from 
the other side to discover, if possible, the gentleman bearing the 
name you give, sir, who was once the reputed son of a baronet in 
Kent. If I am correct in surmising that you answer to that descrip-^ 
tion, I am charged to convey to you the message 1 have received 
from Messrs. Mackestrey.” 

“ 1 have already said that it is,” answered Plantagenet. 

“Just so, sir. Then lam desired to forward a request from a 
cleigyman in New York City, bearing the name of LTsle, who 
banks with us, that you will favor bimlby crossing to the other side - 
forthwith. He has empowered our firm to pay your passage, and he 
desires us to state that your presence is of vital importance in the 
interests of justice.” 

Plantagenet almost turned pale. This was enigmatical and ob- 
scure, blit it harmonized with his strange xjresentinienls. Besides 
which, if the clergyman named was Father L’lsle of his past redil 
lections, the man w'hom he knew by hearsay as the Flvangelist of 
Marmyon village, he felt assured there could be no deceit. 

“ Is it in your power to be more explicit?’ lie asked. 

It is not, sir. We are in this instance simply agents, not confi- 


284 UNDER WHICH KING? 

dants. Toil can have your passage free through us, if you are will- 
ing to accept it.” 

” 1 am not willing,” replied Plantagenet. “ Certainly not. But 
1 shall go for all that— at my own cost.” 


CHAPTER XLllI. 

Errol’s illusion 

The large check signed in favor of Mrs. Frankalmoign, though in 
reality less than £25,000— Mr. Hubble, as he would have put it, 
‘‘ standing in ” for his snare of the plunder— enabled that gay widow 
to cut a dash during the, season, and her daughter to sip all the 
honey of civilized, existence. 

The world, not being behind the scenes, imagined the elder lady 
was rolling in riches, the junior an heiress, and it paid court to both 
•with its normal servility. Society idolizes rank much, but money 
far more, unless the latter elects to be too self- asserting or ostenta- 
tions— in wdiich case it is apt to jib rather nastily. Ida might have 
made her many conquests, buPshc elected to bedifEcile to otliers be- 
sides Eirol. Titles and shekels followed in her train, as well as im- 
pecunious soldiers, and gentry who relied on notning more sub- 
stantial than a glib tongue plus unmitigated impudence, but one 
and all were kept. at bay. The girl ha(l given her heart to Horace 
St. Vincent, and with feminine pertinacity kept it from him. 

This line of hers w^as not quite in accordance with her mother’s 
wishes. Mrs. Frankalmoign quite approved of the policy of keep- 
ing Errol in play, for she could not at once make up her mind to 
appear in the guise of a defaulter, a contingency which would nec- 
essarily synchronize with Ida’s union with that young gentleman. 
But in her heart she really hoped that the marriage w'ould ultimately 
come oft, trusting to Errol’s good-nature to cancel the debt. It 
Avas, therefore, with some displeasure that she noted tow’ard the 
middle of the season a decided predisposition on the part of Miss Ida 
to snub her devoted admirer, so much so that at last she ventured 
to take her to task. 

” Tou are playing, my dear,” she remarked, “ a positively insane 
role.. Supposing Errol in a huff were to demand ‘ Yes ’ or ‘ No ’ 
from you, it w^ould be viiiiiallj'- impossible under the circumstances 
to avoid giving a categorical answer one way or the other.” 

” i hen what do you wish me to do, mother?” 

‘‘Do what you like, Ida, only don’t drive the man to despera- 
tion. Of course, if you would be guidcH by me, you would, think 
twice before throwing over so eligible a parti. Errol is charming in 
manner, clever, the heir of an ancient name — in a word, a catch. 
Moreover, it is not twelve months since you elected, behind my back, 
to get up an aflair wilh this identical man, who at the time w’as much 
the reverse of eligible. But really ’’—with a profound sigh—” girls 
are so perverse!” 

” Upon my honor, mother,” rejoined Miss Ida, her fine eyes flash- 
ing angril3% ” that is a trifle loo cool. You have somehow spent my 
money, and now you want to sacrifice me in order to put things 
straight.” ^ 


UNDER WHICH, #JvINCt? 2S5 

** 1 liave not said that, Ida. You can be very severe vben it suits 
you, but it is simply unfair to infer from a single word of advice 
that I am putting the least pressure on ydur inclinations. Pi ay 
marry whom you please.” 

” 1 most decidedly shall,” observed Miss Ida, resolutely, “ and 
the less 1 am interfered with the better.” 

” If you are in that temper,” replied Mrs. Frankalmoign, ” I am 
afraid 1 must go abroad. 1 can’t afford a rupture with Errol Mar- 
myon, and you know it.” 

‘‘ What! Ck) abroad in the height of the season! Why, mother, 
you would make yourself a laughing-stock !” 

” A role 1 should prefer to that of bankruptcy.” 

‘‘Errol, mother, surely would never bring matters to that pass. 
You are the friend of his mother, and after all a gentleman can 
hardly sue a lady, can he?” 

‘‘ Most positively he can, and would do so if he happened to be re- 
jected by that lady’s daughter.” 

‘‘ And so 1 am to deceive this poor fellow, for whom I don’t care 
a button, whom indeed I ralher think 1 dislike? That is rather 
rough on me. 1 abhor humbug.” 

‘‘ So do 1, my little dear. But in this world it is only the very rich 
who can enjoy the luxury ofbeingsiraightlorward.” 

And there the little ieie-a lete duel ended, and Errol was charmed 
at Lady Skrumpleby’s ball that same evening to finch himself almost 
courted by the fair ida. They say that woman is mutable; possibly 
theie may be some truth in the allegation; but 'most assuredly 
woman in love is immutable. Errol really wished tor Ida. He 
believed that she was the very wife adapted to his temper and in- 
clinations. He was fascinated by her beauty, and not a little at- 
tracted both by her cleverness and the spirihiel quality in her, a 
gift w’hich men value none the less because they are themselves 
conscious of being deficient in it. He was perhaps too deeply inter- 
ested in the pleasures of the town to follow his suit with extreme 
urgency, nevertheless it was his intention to win it he could; and 
jMrs. Frankalmoign had prepared him for a little variableness on 
the part of Miss Ida, so he accepted that young lady’s moods philo- 
sophically. 

There exists, however, a limit to human patience, and this was 
reached when, two days only alter the hall whereat she had been so 
kind, Errol called. He found jffrs. Frankalmoign agitated, and 
Miss Ida with a flushed face. Sometliing evidently had happened 
behind the scenes; something 'of a disagreeable character. He 
would willingly have deferred his visit to a more convenient and 
composed season, but unluckily having no excuse ready to hand for 
levanting hurriedly, perforce essayed to play Romeo to Ida’s Juliet. 

Juliet, however, was awkward, not to say perverse. 

‘‘ A very pleasant affair that of Lady Skrumplehy’s,” he re- 
marked, by way of ice-break»it«ig. 

“ Did you think so?” replied Miss Ida. ” 1 was considerably 
bored— very considerably,” with emphasis. 

Inasmuch as Errol had been her most devoted swain during a 
large portion of the evening, this speech did not sound quite of the 


2S6 


UKDEU. WHICII lUNG? 

nature of a broad compliment. “ 1 fancied,” he rejoined, with an 
effort to smile, ‘‘that you were disposed to enjoy yourself.” 

No response. 

“I am afraid,” interfered Mrs. Frankalmoisjn, with the notion of 
throwing oil on the troubled waters, ‘‘that Ida is a little— ahem! — 
overtired to-day. Really the season does entail such exertion on 
girls, the marvel to me is how they get through it without fairly 
breaking down;” 

“I’m veiy sorry,” muttered Errol, trying to appear sym})athetic. 

“ There is nothing the matter with me,” remat ked Miss Ida, de- 
murely. “ Nothing. Surely, mother, one is not necessarily ill be- 
cause one is bored, otherwise one’s health would depend entirely on 
the accident of the people one chanced to meet.”, 

“ And,” suggested Errol, who could not remain perfectly deaf to 
these broad hints, “the x^cople you met at Lady Skrumpleby’s were 
the wrong soit?” 

“1 did not say that,” answered Miss Ida. “One may have 
missed at least one face, don’t you know, without throwing any re- 
flection on the rest of the company present*/” 

Mrs. Frankalmoign’s lip quivered. This w*as very pointed. 

“ Quito so!” ejaculated Errol. “ And w^ho may the missing link 
have been?” 

“ Thanh you. I am not personally addicted to gorillas.” 

“ Well,” carelessly remarked Errol. “ I’m sorry you were bored. 
It must be boring to have too much of one partner. 

“ Did you find it so?” 

“ Certainly hot. But 1 had no idea 1 was making a. nuisance of 
myself to my fellow-creatures.” 

“ Pray, don’t put words into my mouth! 1 never suggested any- 
thing of the sort. 1 simply wished to infer that the affair might 
have been jollier if there had been another element present. That 
is all. It w^as, of course, very much like other balls. They are 
supposed to be exceedingly chaiming, but one doesn’t get much 
satisfaction out of them.” 

“ Unless a certain element happens to be en evidence?^' 

“ Quite so, Mr. Marmyon. You interpret my ideas to a nicety.” 
And ^liss Ida followed up this pretty speech by a pretty little sar- 
castic laugh. 

That Was just as much as Errol Marmyon could stand. But he 
was by far too true a social artist, and too acute a diplomatist, to 
exhibit the slightest chagrin. On the contrary, after addressing a 
few civil, comiiionplace words to Mrs. Frankalmoign, he bowed 
himself out to the accompaniment of a charming smile and a steady 
diminuendo of colorless , chat ter. 

_ But, to be candid, he was in something akin to a towering pas- 
sion, and as he drove to the Panurge Club, his friends on the pave- 
ment inquired of one another W'hat could have gone wrong with 
Errol Marmyon. His lips were almost livid, and there arose some- 
thing like a film before his eyes. The man wuis disillusionea. 

At the club door he paid oft his hansom, and was about to enter, 
when a hand slapped his shoulder familiarly from behind, and a 
merry laugh rang in his ear. 

“ Why, Errol, old mam w^hat possesses you to cut me dead? I . 


• UNDER WHICH KINCt? 387 

signaled to yon with my ‘brolly,’ and yon wouldn’t— positively 
wouldn’t seel Well, how are you? And how do you like being 
the coining man?” 

” Thanks, Jloddy,. so, so. And when, may 1 ask, did you re- 
appear on this festive scene trom the wilds of California?” with a 
Hush ot not quite pleasurable surprise. 

‘‘Let me think,” laughed Horace St. Yincent. ‘‘It wasn’t 
yesterday. It was the niglit betoie, just in time to miss Mother 
Skrumpleby's hop. You were there, 1 hear,” 

‘‘ Well, yes. . Who told you that?” 

‘‘ A small bird— ot plumage. Can’t you guess? Why, Ida 
Frankalmoign, ot course!” 

Errol looked him steadily in the face, and it suddenly occurred to 
his perceptive intelligence that, atter all, Master Horace was very 
good-looking — but he dismissed the thought. 

There was so much to be talked about that, hipped though he was 
at the moment, there seemed no alternative but to invite Horace to 
dinner, and the ferret on being requested by the rabbit to suck its 
ichor seldom declines. 8o it came to pass that this par nohue once 
again sat down to such fare as the Panurge affords, and it is 
not supposed generally to be very inferior. 

They chatted long and earnestly about Robert, and Horace boldly 
gave it as his opinion that there could be no reasonable doubt now 
of his having fallen a victim to Benito’s vendetta; indeed he crave 
himself undue credit tor having manipulated the situation, and drew 
very largely on his imagination to prove to Errol’s satisfaction that 
he was indebted wholly and entirely to him for the privilege of heir- 
ship. 

‘‘ Nothing,” he remarked, gloriously, ‘‘could have been more 
skillfully managed. The wrecked plowman dug his own pit for 
himself, and dropped into it. I had simply to stand by and watch 
the isssu'e, giving the fellow a little push forward occasionally, and 
trusting to the chapter of accidents ending satisfactorily. But, rny 
boy, it 1 had not marched the man off to the very most anarchic 
and demoniacal quarter of the most rowdy of the American States, 
there might have occurred a difSculty. Murder, of course, is simply 
out of the question. It is ungentlemanly, and in its results too un- 
comfortable to be thought of. Accidents, such as railw^ay smashes, 
the capsizing of boats, or cholera, one can not exactly arrange for in 
advance without risking the chance of the biter being bit, and that 
is not good enough. On the whole, you may therefore thank your 
stars that you have been favored by Fortune.” 

‘‘Well, yes,” observed Errol, dryly, for he rather thought that 
Horace was in quite too desperate a hurry to jump at conclusions. 
‘‘ But it would be premature, wouldn’t it, to assume that the animal 
may not regurgitate? The lawyers assure me that—” 

“Phew! Errol, of course they do. But come, my boy, that 
won’t wash. Whatever the lawyers say, you are the only heir pos- 
sible now — at all events the sole heir on the tapis, so there ought to 
be no difficulty in arranging a moderate plunge. 1 have had a tip 
from my legal factotum to the effect that my creditors have accepted 
the half-crown in the pound which Sir Robert’s lawyers offered 
them. Ergo, that’s all fair and square so far. But 1 want money. 


‘^88 UlsBEll WHICH KIJS^G? 

I want, if 1 may say so, a pile of money, for tliere are lots of people 
to be settled with in this business — Dolopy, Potterer, Benito, and an 
Iiishman, whose name 1 forget, if he happens to be alive.” 

“Yes?” observed Errol, inclifierently. 

“ You need not treat the matter quite so coolly,” observed Horace, 
‘‘ because, don’t you know, to a certain extent, all these men are in 
the secret. They knew that Robert had to be disposed of, and they 
helped me to bring the businessjo a crisis — but on terms — on terms, 
mind you, Errol. Row, it 1 break faith with them they will tell 
the tale to the whole world; and my anxiety to prove the death, 
yours, also, and^Sir Robert’s, will afford corroborative evidence of 
Its truth. Would that quite suit your little book, my friend?” 

Errol smiled. ‘‘You are slightly precipitate, lioddy,” he re- 
joined. ” 1 have not repudiated; all 1 said was that before 1 can he 
in a position to part to the full extent of my promise 1 must have 
proof. But perhaps 1 may be able to do soniething for you now, 
though not, 1 rather imagine, in the way you expect.” 

” As how?” 

” That depends. Suppose 1 say I will tell you the day after to- 
morrow? Will that be soon enough?” 

”01), yes.” 

” Then luncheon here at two sha^, please, I expect by that time 
to be in a position to be explicit.” 

The conversation then turned to other topics, but EitoI was as 
dull and preoccupied as Horace was animated and vivacious. Not 
even the Pauurge pegs after coffee could impart a smile to the 
former’s visage. The heir at that moment looked quite as melan- 
choly and miserable as though he had been disinherited. 

Needless to add, this mood of Errol was anything but gratifying 
to his ms-d-'cis, who, after a dozen vain attempts to render'the even- 
ing agreeable, at last gave it up as a bad job, and pleading an en- 
gagement to play whist took his departure early. 

This w^as really what Errol wished for. "The society of his 
fellow-creatures, and particularly of Horace St. Yincent, with his 
merry rattle, was for the nonce most odious to him, for liis bosom 
swelled witth a sense of being cajoled, swindled, and betrayed. 

Scarcely had Errol left the room w'hen he seized pen and paper, 
and dashed oif the following epistle: 

“Dear Miss Frankalmoign,— You are probably aware that 
your mother has borrowed twenty- five thousand pounds of my 
money on somewhat peculiar conditions. She has arranged that in 
the event of your accepting me as your suitor, or rejecting me posi- 
tively, the money is to bo returned. I am sure that you do not 
desij’e to afford her an excuse tor retaining this large sum indefinite- 
ly, and as, after our interview of to-day, it is simply ridiculous to 
suppose that you could ever think of me — may 1 trouble you so 
far as to say so in waiting? 

” Faithfully yours, 


” Errol Marmyon.” 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


289 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

A DOUBLE KEVELATIOIT. 

Hoeace turned up to luncheon at the Panturc:e with the punctual- 
ity engendered by curiosity plus expectation. He came smiling into 
the room, and wiis surprised lo find Errol if possible a degree more 
didrait and irresponsive than on the previous occasion. However, 
he had not to wait toi the eclaircissemem he anticipnted, for Errol’s 
first words were, “I’ve ordered lunch. Suppose we settle our busi- 
ness first and eat afterward V“ 

No objection being offered to this rational proposition they ad- 
journed to a small private room on the entresol, specially available 
for tete-d-tete interviews, and having anchored, Errol opened the ball 
promptly. “ You want money, Horace? Good. Before 1 tell yoa 
how 1 propose to endeavor to meet this want, 1 must take you into 
my confidence. May 1 trust you?” 

“ Most certainly. Audi, rule, face is my motto. ’’ 

“Yes. Then here goes. Before you went to America— 1 think it 
was actually the night before you started for Liverpool — I told you 
that one reason why I desired to inherit the family honors was, be- 
cause 1 entertained hopes of Ida Frankalmoign. Enough for my 
present purpose if 1 tell you in so many words, that we were en- 
gaged, that her artful old mother played Marplot, and that 1 imag- 
ined after the obstacle, viz., m}'- impecuniosity, was removed, that 
all difficulties would cease. Mrs. I rankalmoign must have enter- 
tained the same idea, for She positively backed my bond tor fifty 
thou., merely stipulating that 1 should lodge halt with her bankers, 
to be refunded either if Ida should refuse me, or if she married me. 
I may telVyou that this arrangement did not quite suit. 1 wanted 
the money badly tor other purposes. But 1 could not get it except 
b^^ falling in with the idea, for the simple reason that, so long as 
Robert ma}’’ be living, even the Jews seem chary of lending on my 
reversion. Now to Weal the painful part of my story. I have paid 
Ida every attention. 1 liaye endured not a littL of the feminine bar- 
ometer with its chronic variations, but at last the young lady’s in- 
tentions could notbemfsunderstood. Whoever she cares tor, I’m not 
the man. Ergo, my dear Horace. 1 wrote her a letter requesting her 
to give me a categorical refusal in order that 1 might claim my 
money. She has not replied.” 

“ What!” exclaimed Horace, his fine eye dilating and his face 
flushing, “ do you mean to say she’s refused to say ‘ Yes’ oi ‘ No ’? 
Impossible!” 

“ That is the case,” replied Errol. 

“ What does it all mean?” 

1 can’t quite say. I’ve my own opinion. However, not to beat 
about the bush unnecessaiily, I’ll tell you, Roddy, how you are to 
come into this business, that's to say,"it the notion meets your ap- 
proval.” 

“ Drive on, old man. I’m yours obediently.” 

“You arc on terms with Madam Frankalmoign. You would not 

10 


V 290 


UNDER WHICH KING? 

be ^uiiermna grata in her menage if yon had been so foolhardy as to 
pay court to Miss Ida, for the v^orldly old woman hasn’t a penchant 
for any but eldest sons, and would kick you into the street if you 
lifted your eyes too loftily. Anyhow, you’re in her good books, 1 
believe. Now, though Ida is playing me a false game, 1 own to a 
sort of sneaking afiection for the girl — one can’t help* one’s self in 
affairs of this sort, don't you know? Consequently, though 1 think 
she’s behaved badly, 1 don’t feel ambitious of any disagreeables. 
Let me, therefore, put this proposition before you: if you can induce 
this good woman Frankalmoign to hand over my mone.y, by 
George! Hoddy, I’ll — I’ll tell 3 ''Ou what I’ll do, I’ll go halves!’* 

Errol was excited, or perhap's he would have noted after this that 
Horace tuined aside, sneezed, coughed, and contrived to hide his 
face, which was, as a matter-of-fact, twitching nervously. 

“ Twelve thousand five hundred pounds,” at length stammered 
Horace St. Vincent; ” make it fifteen, and the bargain stands. Or, 
if you prefer it. I’ll take Mrs, Frankalmoign’s bond for the entire 
twenty-five thousand, and call quits.” 

” Out and out?” inquired Errol. “ Wh}’-, 1 thought you had a 
dozen people to^pay off?” 

” So 1 have. But only pi'o rata on my gross receipts. So far as 
my personal interest goes at the present moment, my only care is for 
— the nimble ninepence.” 

Errol pondered a minute. Then he hesitated. Then he faltered 
awkwardly, ‘‘ 1 don’t care much to be mixed up in money-matters 
with Mrs. Frankalmoign, and of course I am anxious, Hoddy, to do 
the right thing by j^ou. Suppose 1 give a receipt for the twenty-five 
thousand in favor of the lady? Tou can then arrange your own 
terms with tier. How would that do?” 

It w^as Horace's turn to ponder now. He passed his hand nerv- 
ously across his forehead, fidgeted with his leg and foot, but could 
not find words, 

A strange idea floated at the instant before his imagination. Mrs. 
Frankalmoign he knew to be hard up, not to say bankrupt. Ida had 
confessed as much. He saw at a glance through the trickery which 
had placed a heavy sum to her credit, and the thought struck him 
irresistibly, ” should he try to buy Ida?” 

“ 1 will meet your wishes, Errol,” he replied, at length, with great 
deliberation; “ but if 1 do so, 1 must take your assurance that you 
will sue Mrs. Frankalmoign, should she refuse to part.” 

” 1 have made the offer especially to avoid any such contingency,” 
rejoined Errol, petulantly. 

” Ah, yes, of course. Well, then, 1 accept on your terms. Wiite 
the receipt.” 

Errol called for a stamp, wrote it in full, and handed it across the 
table. 

‘‘ Now,” said Horace, with consummate effrontery, “ 1 may as 
well assure you, my dearest Errol, of one little fact; one, too, which 
may demonstrate to your exceedingly intelligent and appreciative 
mind the small truism that there are many things in Heaven and 
earth which are not dreamed of in your philosophy. You said just 
now that 1 could not, dare not, must not, cast an ej^e on Ida Frank- 


UNDER WHICH KIND? 291 

almoign, nor slie on me. Learn, then, most sapient of all the Mar- 
mj^ons, that 1 love Ida and—” 

” More tool yon!” 

” And Ida loves me!” 

“ More fooj she! Upon my body and soul, Hoddy, if 1 had sus- 
pected anything of the kind, you would not have had lhal receipt to 
{day your game with. Terhaps, after all, 1 am indebted to your in- 
fluence for my rejection. Apropos^, 1 remember, now, certain re- 
marks of Miss Ida’s, anent Lady Skrumplcby’s ball, which would 
bear that interpretation.” 

Horace smiled superbly. ”1 left my girl,” he replied, ” in per- 
fect confidence that she would stick by me, and I am not deceived 
in her. But perhaps, my friend, you wmuld like a little further en- 
lightenment— al\^: ays, of course, premising that what is said is tiled,” 

‘‘ As you like.” 

” Well, then, would you be surprised to hear that Mrs. Frankal- 
moign does not possess a sou in this world except, my dear friend, 
your money? 8he seems to have rushed you very cleverly;- and by 
the bj’e, how did it'aU come about? Who was the gay lender?” 

” 1 really forget,” muttered ErroL savagely. “Moses, or — or — 
some detestable name of the Hebrew variety.” 

“ Don’t know the man. But who arranged the entire trick?” 

“ A lawyer, of course. But why ask?” 

“ A lawyer! And was his name, by any chance, Hubble?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Thanks. Well, my friend, don’t let’s differ over this business. 
1 didn’t steal your girl, for she had dropped you before 1 made her 
acquaintance, and that you must know as well as 1 do. Hence you 
don’t owe me one on that score. Anyhow, w’hen 1 was on the 
t’other side of the herring-pond, the coast w’as clear for you, and if 
you couldn’t make your running, don’t blame me. I’ve done you a 
goodish turn in metamorphosing you from a penniless younger son, 
who was carving live dogs in the vain hope of getting a fellowship, 
into an eldest son— I ought of course to say only son— and I’ve ac- 
cepted just one-half of what we agreed was to be the substantial con- 
sideration for my services, besides taking my screw in a very pecu- 
liar form. Ergo, there’s nothing to split about, all being fair in love 
and war, so let’s feed, eh?” 

“ Certainly,” replied Errol, politely. “ 1 was forgetting my rOU 
of host. After you.” 

And so this par noUlefratrum yet once again ate together, and 
laughed and chafied as though they loved each other. Then Horace 
took his leave, with a sort of dim impression on his mind that it 
would be many a long day before again he lunched with Errol Mar- 
mvon. 

He drove straight to Berkeley Street. Mrs. Frankalmoign was 
out, so was Ida. A judicious half-crown, however, evolved the tact 
that they were expected home to afternoon tea, so he wallced down 
to St. James Street , tuer le temps. 

He met, as a man of his sort would. Brown, Jones, Robinson, 
Smith, Tomj)kins, Hodgkinson— several tufts and their toadies, 
an artist or so, and a brace .of his old duns, who capped him obse- 
quiously on the strength of the half-crown in the pound. But be- 


292 


UKD.ER WllJCn KING? 

yond a passing remark, he did not care to stop and chat with any of 
the crew. He had turned, in fact, and was about to retrace his steps, 
when there cannoned against him a fat and not unfamiliar figure. 

“ Dolopy, by l he powers!” 

“ Horace, old man, what a mysterious dispensation that we should 
meet. Since 1 preceded you to this charming country, leaving you 
to follow up the scent of that peculiar customer, liobert Marmyon, 
1 have been longing tor your appearance. Shall 1 tell 3^011 the pre- 
cise reason why"? I’m a man of business, you know, and keep to 
the point.” 

” Want me to be a director, or something?” 

“Not that. Try again. Well, if }mu must know, I’m anxious 
.you should tap Errol Maimyon, sharp.” 

” Why sharp, my boy? Why not give him rope?” 

” Because I’m not an idiot. Because l‘ve got the best reason for 
pushing the business to a crisis,” 

” Want money?” laughingly inquired Horace. 

“Not 'more than usual; not less. No. It’s not the wolf quite 
that is pursuing me. H’s— I’ll tell you in confidence — it’s prudence.” 

“ 1 don’t understand, Holop}^” 

“ Simply this, Errol Marmyon enjoys borrowing powers now. 
Hon’t tell me lie doesn’t, because I’ll undertake to raise him a plum 
in twenty-four hours. He’s the heir, don’t you see?” 

“ Why. of course. But, 1 repeat, why this desperate hurry? Errol 
is not the man to be rushed.” 

“ Indeed,” remarked Dolopy, dryly, “ then so much the worse for 
two gentlemen of my acquaintance— you and 1 .” 

“ Why so?” 

Dolop}'’ would have continued the conversation, but it chanced 
that at that very moment he espied across the street 3 ''oung Lord El- 
lington, a scion of nobility, whose name he was desirous to utilize 
for a company he was forming, so he incontinently burst from Hor- 
ace with a hurried, “See you to-morrow,” leaving him to pursue 
his solitary way to Berkeley Street. 

Mrs. Frankalmoign was at home, so was Ida. But they were not 
alone. Lady Skrumpleby and her four marriageable ones— shes, of 
course —had invaded the Frankalmoign territory, and were engaged 
in lapping the fragrant Darjeeling of the period from a service of 
hired “ old blue.” 

Moreover, there was no escaping these charming people. Lady 
Skrumpleby had taken firm possession of Madame, and a brace of 
Skrumpleby girls of Miss. Horace, therefore, though he tried to get 
a word in edgeways, was relegated to the other two Miss Skrump- 
lebys, ’who did their little utmost to engross his attention, not very 
successfiillyi, though the 3 " were quite pretty girls. It was along 
half-hour before these quite too attractive people rose to leave, and 
then Mrsp? Frankalmoign assumed a fussy and perturbed manner. 
“ Keally, my dear Ida,” she cried, “ 3 ’ou will be too late. Go and 
dress, ch.ld, at once, not a moment to spare! I’m sure Mr. St. Vin- 
cent will excuse you, and me also, for 1 must be thinking about my 
toilet, llun away, Ida, do. Eh, what?” 

“ X think, mamma, it is only fair to Mr. St. Vincent to tell him of 


UNDER WHICH KING? 293 

the news we heard to-day. Have you that tele^irram by you? He 
ouffht to know it.” 

” Very well. Yes, my dear. You’re quite right. I’ll find the 
telegram if only 5 mu will be so very obliging as to — ” 

But she had no need to say more. Ida, with a smile to Horace, 
had already made her escape, and then Mrs. Frankalmoign, still 
preserving her bewildered and worried manner, began ferociously 
routing in a drawer. 

” The telegram— Mr. St. Vincent — ” she muttered, fragmentarily, 
continuing to rummage among her papers, ‘‘ was— oh, here it is! no, 
that’s another— was from New York— it came to— ahem- -is that it? 
— to Lady Marmyon, who wired it on to me. Why, here it is. Yes. 
Y’ou can decipher it better than 1 can.” 

Horace took it from her rather eagerly, at the same time placins: 
in her hand Errol Marmyon’s receipt, with ” Bead that, Mrs. 
Frankalmoign. It concerns you; and don’t say 1 am not your very 
good friend!” 

The Igdy accepted it, and thus each in a trice of time perused two 
very important documents simultaneously. The effect must have 
been magical, since, as though affected by mutual inspiration, both 
in one breath uttered the same exclamation, ” Good Heaven!” 


CHAPTER XLV. 

A lady’s battle. 

“Good Heaven!” was Horace St. Vincent's ejaculation; and 
“ Good Heaven!” Mrs. Frankalmoign’s echo. Both were equally 
startled, but in a different way. 

Lady Marmyon 's telegram ran thus: 

“ From Lady Marmyon, Marmyon. Kent, to Mrs. Frankalmoign^ 
178 Berkeley Street, W. 

“Just heard from a clergyman named L’lsle. Robert at New 
York alive but ill. Break news to Errol. ” 

“Well,” gasped Horace, “to tell the truth, I’m downright re- 
lieved. Of the two men Robert’s a long way the best, and he didn’t 
deserve to be potted.” 

“And 1,” smiled Mrs. Frankalmoign, “equally so. Much 
obliged for the receipt, Horace, but after this little morceau of in- 
telligence it is valueless.” 

“ Valueless, Mrs. Frankalmoign?” * 

“ Certainly. Haven’t 1 stood surety for Errol? Under the cir- 
cumstances, of course, inasmuch as I am liable to be called upon to 
pay £50,000, 1 must protect myself. 1 should not dream of return- 
ing his money. Most ridjculous!” 

“ Upon my honor,” replied Horace, “you’ve the verj^ calmest 
hand 1 have ever yet dealt to. But, my lady, you may be wrong. 
A bond’s a bond, and can be sued upon. Suppose it were to fall 
into the hand of a third party?” 

“ Suppose fiddlestick’s end!” remarked Mrs, Frankalmoign. 

Horace was posed. 


294 


UNDEll WHICH KING? 


“ I lliink,” lie remarked, “ that this situation reads very much 
like ‘ Two for you and one for me!’ ” 

“ Why so?” . • 

” That 1 should fancy amounts to an open secret which might he 
read between the lines without the aid of an interpreter. However, 
it’s only fair to inform you that this same receipt,” she had returned 
it to him, ‘‘ either covers a settlement or the reverse. You are the 
best judge whether the accident of Errol ceasing to be heir justifies 
^mur evasion of repayment. 1 ihink not.” 

]\lis. Frankalmoign winced just a little at that ugly word evasion, 
and bit her lip, ” Well,” she said, ” and 1 am to understand that 
you, as the holder of the receipt, are a sort of plenipotentiary to 
ai range terms? Good. Then, Mr. Horace St. Vincent, stale your 
terms— please.” 

‘‘ Am I to state them in a word?” 

” In a W'ord. ” 

Horai;e paused. At last, however, he jerked forth, with emotion, 
“Ida!” 

“ You don’t surely mean Ida for Errol, the younger son?” 

“ Oh, dear, no! 1 mean Ida for me.” 

“ For you, Horace! Why. you haven’t a pice to call 3 ’'Our own. 
Absurd! You could not pay for Ida’s gloves.’' 

“ But Mrs, Frankalmoign is not so poor as to be unable to settle 
a glove bill for her married daughter, and 1 should fancy out of the 
large haul she has so cleverly exdracted from Errol Marmyon might 
refund some portion of her daughter’s fortune. Eh, madam?” 

Mrs. Frankalmoign sprung to her feet in a passion. “ What!” 
she gasped. “ What! Do you dare- to insult me?” 

‘ ‘ Be calm, my dear lady. Insolence is not business, and 1 am 
talking business, pure and simple. You had better for your own 
sake, for Ida’s sake, for my sake, hear me out. Listen. Ida is 
madly in love with me. You ma}’' marry her to a royal personage, 
a duke, or a Rothschild, but she will pine after me, ana such a 
union will involve but two alteruatives, the divorce court or the 
grave. 1 am not talking romantic balderdash. 1 spciik from a 
positive knowledge of jmur sex. There are tw^o varieties of wmmen : 
w'omen who feel, and w^omen who don’t feel. You belong to the 
latter order, and can’t understand the others. 5 00 maiTied for 
money contentedl 3 % and were happy. Your daughter is cast in a 
different mold, believe me; and, as you know, her temper is not to 
be trifled with.” 

“ Ergo, 1 am to permit her to marry you?” 

“ M}’’ meaning to a nicety. If otherwise, sooner or Inter j’-ou will 
have to -face Errol — and your own daughter. Mrs. Frankalmoign, 
have you ever considered seriously the nature of the penally which 
awaits a fraudulent trustee-?” 

“ Faugh! ridiculous! It suits your purpose to paint Ida as a vi- 
cious virago, but you render her scanty justice. She will never lift a 
finger against her mother. As for Errol, the case is different, and 
if you, as you put it, would only make it a matter of business, I 
would buy your receipt. But finally, Mr. Horace, 1 object to mix- 
ing up buying and selling with romance, particularly where my child 
is concerned.” 


UNDER WHICH KING? 295 

“ Before I reply,” said Horace, preserving an admirable 
which his lady antagonist strove very imperfectly to imitate—” be- 
fore 1 reply, sufter me as a friend to obtrude a little bit of quiet 
advice. "Your best policy, Mrs. Frankalmoign, believe me, is to 
sanction my union with Ida, taking Ida’s receipt for the large sum 
that has evaporated and can never be replaced. In that event you 
are free of all liability, including Errol. There is money enough in 
hand to keep the ball rolling for several years, and with my talents 
and your connection, surely we could calculate on somesort’of coup, 
or 1 might get an appointment either at home or abroad. Be wise, 
therefore, in time. 1 may be a prejudiced adviser, but if jmu saw the 
cards in my hand 3^11 would call me both honest and practical.” 

Mrs. Frankalmoign could not answer. There appeared a modi- 
cum of common-sense in this plea, but she entertained a rooted 
aversion to. Horace, and already, as he sat looking fixedly in her 
e 3 ’'es, she recognized in him a cool, unscrupulous, satirical tyrant. 

” No,” she nmttered, after a long pause. 

” Very good. 1 take that as final. Now for the purchase of the 
receipt of Errol wdiieh 1 hold. Perhaps you will kindly mention 
what 3 'ou will give?” 

“ Oh, no, 1 can’t be both buyer and seller. It is for you to name 
your price, for me to consider it.” 

” Ten thousand pounds?” 

” Impossible. 1 would rather run the risk, whatever it may be, 
than part with such a sum.” 

” Five thousand?” 

“No.” 

” Five thousand, half in cash, and half in any shares you may 
happen to desire to dispose of?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then I may as well take your check in exchange for my receipt, 
and you can send me the shares.” 

“ i think not, 1 prefer that the matter should be arranged through 
my solicitor, Mr, Hubble.” 

That was all. The appointment with the lawyer was fixed, and 
Horace took his leave, being accorded the tips of two fingers. Then 
Mrs. Frankalmoign directed that it he called again at any time she 
was not at home. 

He had not left half an hour, when in response to an urgent mes- 
sage EiTol arrived in a hansom at the portal of the Maison Frankal- 
moign. 

“1 suppose you have heard the news?” was the. singular greeting 
which encountered him. 

“ No, Mrs. Frankalmoign, I’ve not,” he could but reply. 

“ 1 wish you had— or rather that the task of tale-bearer had not 
been thrust on my shoulders. Pray sit down. Y’ou have not, 1 am 
to understand, heard a syllable in reference to— to your brother?” 

Errol paled. 

“ Is he actually dead?” he asked. “ I hope his end was not very 
awful, very tragical, poor fellow.” 

“ Not exactly dead, though of course we do not know what may 
happen. Y’our mother has had a wdre from New York, where he 


296 UNDEE WHICH KIHG? 

seems to have fallen in wiCli a clergyman named L’Isle. Perliaps 
you know him?” 

“ Then the man’s living?” 

” Certainly — though ill, as you may imagine, or the wire would 
not have come from the clergyman,” 

‘‘Just like my hideous luck,” moaned Errol, a tear positively 
rising to his eye. “ I’m disappointed all round. Ida— the title— the 
estate! Upon my honor, prussic acid seems the probable end ot it 
ally It’s preferable to pauperism.” 

' That,” responded the lady, “ is a very masculine way of look- 
ing at things. I’m sorry Ida and you could not quite hit it off, still, 
after all is said and done, my dear boy, there are as good fish in the 
sea as ever came out ol it. Of course in respect of your prospects 
that is another affair altogether. But, for your comfort, 1 may tell 
you that the telegram is so worded as to convey the impression of 
something like danger. Probably this person — your brother— is 
suffering from the results of his temerity in mixing himself up with 
those unfortunate Irish. ” 

“Ugh!” groaned Errol. “No such luck! The fellow has 
escaped. That is plainer than a pikestaff. The silver spoon is in 
his mouth, cad though he be, and 1 am condemned to effacement ! 
What jades these Fates are! If only they existed in the flesh, I’d — 
by George, I’d strangle all three!” and he tried to laugh. 

“Dear me, no,” smiled Mrs. Frankalmoign. “That would be 
to kill the geese with. the golden eggs. Wait, Errol, wait; all things 
are possible to him who waits. If you would guarantee me a thou- 
sand^ years of intelligent existence, I would pledge my word to die 
the richest woman on this planet.” 

The words had barely escaped her lips when in tripped Ida, as 
lovely as a two hours’ toilet can make a young lady of fashion. 

“ IMother! Not ready yet? The carriage is ordered for half-past 
seven. How do you do, Errol? I am sorry for your misfortune.” 

Mother accordingly smiled sweetly, and hurried away to her 
lady’s-maid, leaving the young pqir to coo or quarrel, 

“ I am, indeed, most grieved,” continued Ida, with genuine sym- 
pathy, “ because, Errol, although you are only a friend, still — ” 

“ Why didn’t you answer my letter?” 

“ I couldn’t. I could not say I loved you, for I love Horace St. 
Vincent as 1 never can love another human being, and my mother 
did not wish me to say ‘ No.’ ” 

“ But you encouraged me.” 

“ I don’t know that. If moods are a barometer, you ought to 
have found out my mind. All I can say is that I am glad the un- 
derstanding was arrived at before the telegram came, or I should be 
suspected of mercenary motives.” 

“ I don’t accuse you of anything of the kind,” responded Errol. 
“ I have believed in you all through— and I’m sorry for you, if 
you’ll pardon my presumption in saying as much.” 

“ Why should you be sorry?” 

“ One of two things must happen. Either you will marry Hor- 
ace, and so be miserable, or you won’t marry Horace, and so also be 
miserable. A bad lookout bolh ways.” 

Ida’s face gloomed. “ What a prophecy!” she whispered. 


UIsDER WHICH KING? ^97 

“ A true one. Horace is charming, clever, versatile; but he is 
also fickle, false, and cruel. The very man to fascinate a girl, the 
very man to wreck her happiness. But, in addition to all that, he 
hjisn’t a sou. He cannot dig, nor beg. He owes money in America. 
He is in essence a gambler, and, if Tmay say so, his ideas are about 
as extensive as your own. 'V\ith ten thousand a year your marriage 
might be a coup; with nothing a year it must prove a coup 
manque.” 

“ Thank you,” smiled Ida, half satirically. 

”1 can talk to the point,” continued Errol, ‘‘because no one, 
least of all you, can suspect me now of anything like an arriere 
pensee. 1 am to-day reduced to the level of a social cipiier, and no 
longer in the running. But, from my soul, 1 wish Miss Ida Frank- 
almoign well; and 1 hate Horace St. Vincent!” And he rose to 
leave. 

He had advanced as far as the door when a sudden thought flashed 
across his brain. Quickly he traversed the drawing-room to the 
spot where Ida stood, looking glorious indeed in her evening dress, 
with her hand on the bell-rope. She paused. So did he. 

” Would you oblige me,” he faltered, ‘‘ by asking your mother 
whether she has seen Horace to-day?” 

” She has.” 

” What was his errand? Perhaps you don't know? You don’t, 
1 perceive. Then please go to Mrs. Frankalmoign at once, and ask 
her if Horace has been attempting to strike a bargain on a certain 
receipt 1 gave him as a matter of confidence to take to her.” 

” What?” 

” Oblige me by making the inquiry.” 

Ida hesitated, flushed, but eventually ran upstairs to her mother, 
and as quickly returned with a message that Mrs. Frankalmoign 
had covenanted to purchase that same receipt for a large sum. 

” Now,” cried Errol, ” you have before your eyes one proof of 
that man’s base nature. We interchanged confidences. 1 told him 
of the lamentable failure of my suit. He revealed to me his suc- 
cess. 1 asked him to be the bearer of my receipt in full for the sum 
1 handed'to your mother, but 1 stipulated that while he might make 
that receipt a leverage to advance his suit, ne was not to plunder 
Mrs. Frankalmoign, but to band it over to her without conditions. 
He has, I see, tried to make a harvest out of it. Just like the man! 
Y'ou don’t know him, Ida.” 

” 1 know this, ’’►cried Ida, bursting into tears, ” that 1 am very, 
very wretched.” 

Whereafter—not being equal to this species of logic— he did go. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

MOSTLY RETROSPECT. 

Errol had played a bold game to checkmate Horace, and success 
beyond his anticipations was the result. Ida Frankalmoign had first 
revolted against Errol on account of his barbaric cruelty to animals, 
and her sensibilities received an equal shock when she learned that, 


298 UNDER WHICH KING? 

as it was put to her, the man she adored thought more of money 
than of her, and had actually endeavored to rob her mother. More- 
over, not being aware of Mrs. Frankalmoign’s ukase excluding Hor- 
ace St. Vincent, she was surprised at his non-appearance which she 
attributed to shame at being delected in rascality. 

But the lost love left a blank in her life as w^ell as in her heart. A 
passion like hers tor this attractive yet not very worthy object could 
not be quenched in a moment of time. She pined and fretted so that 
at last her mother invited herself and daughter for the long-prom- 
ised visit to Marmjon. The family, of course, with the news of 
the heir being still alive, had discarded mourning o^ the external 
and unreal variety, retaining only that which was non-apparent yet 
real, inasmuch as they were grieved enough that Errol had been 
supplanted. There was, therefore, no reason why visitors should 
not be welcome, saving and except that tne baronet and his wife 
were much worried and perplexed in anticipation of the proximate 
arrival of the son who was to them, in every sense of the word, an 
unwelcome stranger; for, be it remarked, good Father L’lsle had 
written to his friend, Mr. Orphrey, a long account of Robert’s phys- 
ical condition, which he described as being one bordering on pros- 
tration, and he further expressed his inteoition of accompanying the 
young man to England as soon as he was in a fit state to travel; the 
which epistle was duly passed on to the Court. When, therefore, 
Ida, pale as a lily, and her mother, robust as a dairy-maid, arrived 
at Marmyon Court, they found that august center of social gravity 
metaphorically on the tiptoe of expectation. That expectation was 
not altogether pleasurable, as Mrs, Frankalmoign perceived at a 
glance from the oppressed air of Sir Robert and tbe languid resigna- 
tion of my lady. She, however, rather relished the notion of meet- 
ing the indisputable heir, and it occurred to her vivid imagination 
that it might be feasible to fling Ida at his head. Her daughter was 
at the moment in that sort of desperate frame of mind which in- 
duces young ladies at times to marry the man they most hate in 
order to spite the Fates for denying them the man they love. But, 
of course, much would depend upon the degree of plebeianism 
whereunto the said heir had descended. Ida she knew to be fastid- 
iousness itself, and it was not on the cards that she would marry a 
positive boor. She was not kept long in suspense. On the second 
day after their arrival a telegram arrived from Father L’lsle at Liver- 
pool, requesting Sir Robert to meet him, together with Robert the 
heir, in London. Sir Robert accordingly took the first train to the 
metropolis, and in the evening returned with what Hester Mazebrook 
was pleased to style “ a y’ost of comp’ny,” 

The y’ost— Anglice host — consisted of Plantagenet, Father L’lsle, 
Mr. Mackestrey, the banker of New York, and Robert. Happily, 
the Court was large enough to accommodate a sudden invasion of 
tenfold the proportions of this, and Lady Marmyon, of course, at 
once brisked herself up to do the honors — a rule for ^'hich no woman 
was better qualified. 

The party arrived in time for the ordinary Marmyon seven o’clock 
repast, and, after the necessary toilet, presented themselves in the 
drawing-room— Robert alone pleading the privilege of an invalid, 
asd retiring to his chamber after the first brief words of salutation. 


tJNDER WHICH KIHG? 299 

Father L’Isle was the first to enter the room. His commanding 
figure, rare dignity of manner, and splendid courtesy at once capti- 
vated the great lady. 

“I should have hesitated," he said, “to intrude on your hos- 
pitality, but for the very pressing request of Sir llobert. Indeed, 1 
am unlike most of my clerical brethren, in that 1 have long ceased 
to make society my special sphere. My mission in life lies in a dif- 
ferent direction, and the vow of holy poverty 1 have voluntarily 
taken would alone render it impossible for me to mix largely with 
the world. But 1 was glad, most glad, to accept Sir Eobert's kind 
invitation, because 1 think it well that your ladyship should learn 
from my lips the nugget you are so fortunate as to possess in your 
humble yet not vulgar-minded son." 

Lady Marmyon smiled, a trifle amusedly perhaps. Robert the 
nugget would indeed be a revelation to her. However she faltered 
some commonplace compliment to the good father. 

“ Er — ah," chimed in Sir Robert, who had just entered — “ er — 
ah, we are indebted to you, Mr, L’Isle, for the immense interest 
you have taken in Robert, and for the marked, yes, the er — ah — 
marked improvement noticeable in the poor fellow’s manner. As 
we have a quarter of an hour before the gong goes for dinner, I’m 
sure both my wife and 1 will be grateful if, in the few^est words, you 
can give us an inkling of his mysterious disappearance and er — ah 
— reappearance." 

Father L’Isle bowed. “ You are aware," he said, “ of the facts 
concerning the blowing up of Judge Potterer’s mine by a miserable 
gang of deluded Irish miners, w^hereof all, except the ringleaders, 
paid the penalty with their lives. RoDert, poor fellow, was involved 
in that affair— by implication only. He was as innocent of foul play 
as a babe, and protested in advance against it. By one of those 
mysterious coincidences. w^hicb the Church attributes to Providence, 
the world to chance, Robert, in consequence of his being under sus- 
picion, was ordered oft the mine wilhin a few minutes of the catas- 
trophe. The noise of the explosion warned him, as a suspect, to 
provide for his safety. He fled. His legs in the first instance saved 
him ; next, the possession of money. After a run of some ten miles, as 
he calculates, he encountered a party of miners, and from them pur- 
chased a horse. He then rode for dear life, the horror of pursuit 
and consequent Nemesis being upon him, and at last, by an extraor- 
dinary circuit, he reached San Francisco, but in a condition too ter- 
rible to be talked about. He had slaked his thirst with impure 
water, and when 1 was summoned to his bedside he w’as raving 
frorji fever." 

“ Pardon me," interrupted Lady Marmyon. “ But why did he 
not endeavor to discover Horace St. Vincent, who was his guide, 
and, if one may so say, his guardian? Horace must have been 
actually at that very moment in San Francisco." 

Father L'l&le looked grave. “Mr. Horace St. Vincent, Lady 
IMarmyon, ihust speak for himself,” he replied. “ All I can tell 3mu 
is, that the poor fellow’s great horror w'as lest this same Mr. St. 
■Vincent or his friend, a captain, w^hose name 1 forget — " 

“ Dolopy," suggested Sir Robert. • 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


300 

“Yes, DoJopy — that is the name — lest they should find him out. 
He called St. Vincent Judas, and — 

“ A bitot temporary mental aberration!” interposed her ladyship, 
rather scornfully. 

“Not so. That comparison was drawn by him in his convalescent 
stage; and if all he tells me be — however, perhaps 1 had better avoid 
criticism and proceed with my narrative. Suffice it tliat, rightly or 
wrongly, he lived in terror of these gentlemen; and when, as soon 
as his brain steadied itself after the fever, 1 showed him the adver- 
tisements in the American papers offering rewards tor the discovery 
of his whereeaOouts, he charged me, by my fidelity as a priest, to 
keep his secret. It was, as you may surmise, some time before 1 
could permit him to move; and when he did travel with me north- 
ward, it was under an assumed name. At New York his resources 
and mine both ran short ; but 1 happened to have gained the friend- 
ship during my previous sojourn in that city of Mr. JMackestrey, 
who, with a liberality 1 can never hope to requite, placed almost un- 
limited funds at our disposal. This was providential; for Hobert 
had a relapse, and it was in consequence of that circumstance that 
Mr. Mackestrey at my request telegraphed for Mr. Plautagenet. 
The precise reason for that step 1 need not now mention. It will 
transpire, doubtless, and 1 think you will appreciate the promptitude 
wherewith that gentleman responded to the summons. That, how- 
ever, is the outline of the story, except one all-important detail.” 

“ And that?” inquired Lady Marmyon, eagerly. 

“ Simply this: that my intercourse with your son has resulted in 
his acquiring religious belief and experience. You sent him abroad 
to be metamorphosed from barbarism to something approximating 
culture. He has returned to you, as Sir Robert puts it, improved; 
as 1 shall venture to affirm, changed. How far the change has 
affected his mind in the direction of true culture you will perceive as 
you become better acquainted with him. He is certainly more in 
harmony with you in one respect than he was of yore. He was a 
socialist, and no Christian, lie is a Christian, and his social theories 
have been largely modified. If you can surmount the natural antip- 
athy all of gentle birth feel for a Doric dialect and a Doric demeanor, 
you will learn what a treasure you have in a Christian son.” 

“Amen!” echoed the baronet. Hut her ladyship merely re- 
marked, “ There is the gong. Please introduce your friend, Mr. 
JMackestrey. I want to talk to him about New York. ” 

And so deglutition, for the nonce, interrupted graver topics. The 
party sorted themselves, and marched in couples to the chamber 
sacred to the mysteries of Lucullus. 

Errol w'as absent; and hence, though Lady IMarmyon was frigid, 
Plantagenet felt so-much at home as more than once to quite forget 
that he was a stranger. He sat next to Ida PranKalmoign, who 
chatted to him agreeably, and indeed cordially, reminding him, with 
her sweetest smile, of his promptitude in saving her 'arm from the 
fatal teeth of the adder in Flesset Wood. And when, after dinner, 
the honest, impetuous baronet grasped his broad hand and said’ 
“ Planny, I could wish that you were still my son, tor no man ever 
boasted one more noble!” the tear started to the fine fellow’s eye as 


UKBER WHICH KIKG? 801 

lie made response, “ Perhaps you Lave a son to be proud of. 1 
think so.” 

” My dear Mrs. Frankalmoign,” gasped my lady, indignantly in 
her boudoir after they had all sought their respective chambers. 
“ What an assortment! A wild priest — rather interesting, of course, 
but wild. A \aukee milliunaire philanthropist, who caculated na- 
sally, and guessed the Court was almight ancient. That beef -eating 
boor, poor, spurious Plantagenet-^lhe impertinence of the vrretch in 
mal<ing ej'cs at your sweet Ida! And Robert, from the plow-tail, 
nestling upstairs under the roof as my son. What sins have I com-’ 
mitted that 1 should be subjected to the horror of hobnobbing with 
such people?” 

” I thought Sir Robert — ahem— rather in form.” 

” Yes; oh, yes. Quite so. Sir Robert’s one of those amiable Don 
Quixotes who wdll follow What he consideis to be abstract right to 
the bitter end of disgrace and degradation. He never halt appreci- 
ated Errol and he can therefore bring himself to imagine that this 
creature Robert, having been transmogrified by a wandering friar 
from a demon into an angel, must necessarily cease to be a vurgariau 
and become a gentleman. It’s really too stupid a supposition to 
discuss. For my part, although 1 am sincere in my devotion to 
Church principles, 1 confess that a diabolical gentleman seems vastly 
preferable to an angel proletarian. 1 could tolerate Lord Rochester, 
but not John JMilton.” 

” The question is,” slyly rejoined Mrs. Frankalmoign, ” whether, 
if your son Rebert with his new'ideas and, as 1 suppose Father L’lsle 
would call it, his chastened temperament, were subjected for a length 
of time to cultured influence and none other — whether he might not 
be made presentable?” 

Lady Marmyon sighed. ” 1 only wish,” she remarked, ” that 
mine was not the particular cultured influence destined to experiment 
upon that mass of raw material.” 

“ Yes?” laughed the other lady; ” well, I confess 1 really should 
not at all mind a little trouble, provided that my pupil was apt and 
teachable. Besides which, as tlie poor fellow staggered into the hall 
by the aid of good Father L’lsle’s arm, 1 really thought his illness 
had given him quite a refined air. As a matter-of-fact, however, it 
will not be his mother’s, nor indeed any other influence of the ordi- 
nary sort, that will educate and elevate him. It will be that of his 
wife.” 

“ And he wants to marry a washer-woman!” almost shrieked in 
her bitter anger this proud woman. ‘‘A washer-girl, I ought to 
say, who has occasionally assisted in the coarser work of our laundry. 
Really when one reflects what the man is, though I giant it is his 
misfortune and not his fault, and what his tastes and motives are, 
it paral3v.ea one — it freezes one’s very marrow !” 

‘‘ You don’t tell me,” murmured Mrs. Fi’ankalmoign, ” that the 
man’s actually going to commit social suicide by taking for his wife, 
and your daughter in-law, aw’ench from the wash-tub! Impossible!” 

” i hope so. But if not it wom’t be his fault. As a matter of fact, 
since he w^ent away to America, this Venus di Soapsuds lias levanted, 
goodness knows where, or on what errand. You can understand the 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


302 

kind of line a village beauty ^vould take. I’m told the streets of 
London are crowded with them — impudent hussies!” 

“Oh!” murmured Mrs. Frankalmoign, greatly relieved, adding, 
however, to that meaningful ejaculation the dr}’- remark, “ perhaps 
f ortunate predilection that of the young woman — 1 mean tor a differ- 
ent sphere, of course; because had she remaineil here she would 
have been rather a nettle for you to grasp.” 

‘‘1 don’t know about that,” replied her ladyship. ” If Eobert 
had elected to join forces with a person of her sort, of course he 
would have been compelled to absent liimselt. So far, liowever, 
all’s well that ends well. AVe have escaped one entanglement, but 
what will the next be?” 

‘‘What, indeed!” echoed Mrs. Frankalmoign, thoughtfully, as 
she wished my lady an affectionate good-night, ‘‘ what, indeed, un- 
less some good fairy should intervene!” 

‘‘Good fairies,” sneered Lady Marmyon, “don’t affect porcu- 
pines, and Robert is a porcupine. He bristles with vulgarities.” 


chapter XLVH. 

PLAIS'NY, THE PRIEST, AND THE PENITENT. 

The morning following was devoted by Sir Robert Marmyon to a 
series of tete-d-tete interviews with his guests in the library. Im^nmis 
with Plantagenet, who delivered himself with oracular precision, 
“ The reason why 1 was summoned to New York,” he averred, 
“ was because Robert, believing himself to be dying, desired that 1 
should convey to your mind certain facts which bear but one inter- 
pretation. tie has happily recovered, and can say his say tor him- 
self, so that 1 shall prefer to preserve a judicious silence. But 1 
must own this, that this man’s object in summoning me was to save 
you from deception. My prompt action in acknowledging his rights 
seems to have given him a very favorable impression of my honesty 
and veracity, and 1 need not add that he avows himself a firm be- 
liever in your honor. What he was anxious to avoid was your be- 
ing tricked and cajoled. AVere 1 to say more 1 should be anticipat- 
ing his statement,” 

“ Pardon me,” asked Sir Robert, “ but who was likely to cajole 
or trick or deceive me?” 

You had better hear Robert’s own allegation.” 

“No. 1 prefer to hear you. The door is closed. AA^hat passes 
will never cross my lips; and surely, Plauny, you need not hesitate 
to confide in your fa — , in me?” 

“ 1 don’t know,” soliloquized Plantagenet, very dubiously. “ jMy 
position is peculiar, almost equivocal. ^\f I open my mouth 1 may 
appear in an unenviable light. 1 rejicat, sir— hear Robert.” 

“ 1 wish to hear you, and you only. I beg you to speak plainly, 
as your friend and 'father from infancy. 1 command you, Planny.’’ 

There was no escaping this obligation. Slowly, carefully, anci in 
guarded language. Plantagenet narrated all that had occurred, as it 
had been revealed to him at length by Robert and Father L’lsle. 
AA'hen he had told the story he added—'but not as his own dictum— 
its corollary as deduced by Robert. 


UNDER WHICH KING? 303 

Robert/’ he said, “ entertains a firm conviction that St. Vincent 
and Dolopy were in league with Potterer, Benito, and probably 
Frayney, to get rid of him. That in money-matters the two princi- 
pals were flagrantly dishonest can hardly be disputed. You w’ere 
robbed by them. But apart from that, they seem — according to 
Robert’s suspicions — to have had a motive in the background, and 1 
am sorrj^ to say that his suspicion goes further, and traces the origin 
of the entire conspirey to one source— a source which 1 had rather 
not so much as name.” 

Sir Robert shaded his face. ‘‘ Quite wise on your part, Planny, 
on no account to ventilate a notion which can bear no surer basis 
than mere suspicion. Quite wise!” 

” Yes,” replied ^he young man, ‘‘you are right; and 1 think it 
would be better if that phase of the matter were left untouched, ex- 
cept by Robert himself . ” 

” No,” answered Sir Robert, with unwonted firmness. ‘‘ Be good 
enough to tell Robert on no account to accuse any one— any one, 1 
repeat, Planny, whether he has grounds of accusation or not. I 
have to bear far more than he can ever appreciate. Out of regard 
for my feelings he must in turn forbear. You will make him un- 
derstand that, Planny?” 

Plantagenet bowed his acquiescence, and retired in favor of Father 
L’lsle. 

The good priest’s testimony w^as in every item the reiteration of 
what the baronet had already heard; but, as a matter of obligation, 
that earnest apostle would not rest content with the mundane aspect 
of the narrative, 

” Sir Robert,” he said, with tenderness in his every accent, ” you 
will pardon my saying that there must be a strong element of Chris- 
tian morality in your nature to have impelled you so thoroughly in 
the direction of right. Your conduct toward your son has been 
magnanimous. You might have repudiated him; you might have 
relegated him to obscurity. You acted in a different spirit— albeit 
in consigning the young man to evil associations, you — ” 

‘‘ 1 did not believe them to be evil,” pleaded the baronet. 

‘‘ Of course not. Y'et, it you had adopted my standpoint, you 
would hardly have expected good to accrue from the tutelage of a 
man totally devoid of principle.” 

“ It was an error,” Sir Robert could but confess. 

‘‘ Quite so. Happily, however, the result you hope to accomplish 
by equivocal means has been arrived at, but in another why. Has 
it ever occurred to your mind how very unaccountable it is, except 
on one hypothesis, "that the Galilean fishermen should have been in 
after-time the authors of tractates than which there exists nothing 
more exquisite in the whole circle of language? Y’’ou wull reply, in 
the stereotyped phraseology of belief, that they w^ere inspired. Cer- 
tainly they were, and in a very exalted degree. But, Sir Robert, do 
you imagine that inspiration ended with the Apostolic age?” 

Sir Robert could not reply to this query. It was over his head. 

‘‘ Of course, we call inspiration by a different name now. We 
call it grace. Words, however, at best do but mutilate ideas. The 
worst pigments you can use to paint a picture are words, only they 
happen to form the only material we possess. 1 shall, therefore, in 


304 


UNDER WHICH KING? 

speakin,(>: of Robert, employ the simplest language. The young 
man has undergone a change. He is now in every respect, except 
mere diction, a gentleman, but his quality is that of St. John, and 
not of Lord Chesterfield.” 

“lam very grateful to you,” replied the baronet, not without 
some emotion in his usually crisp voice. 

“ No; don’t thank me. Thank the Power that has effected this. 
Above all, if it should so happen that you, as a true gentleman, 
should be impressed Iw tbe fact of your son’s renovation, perhaps 
3 ^ou may deem it jworth your while to seek for some such spiritual 
experience as has elevated the uneducated plowman out of the 
mire, and may exalt a man of your caliber far higher. May 1 
hope so?” 

Sir Robert bowed. He could not take offense at this pointed 
speech. The motive of Father L’lsle was too evidently sincere to 
be lesented. And so, in turn, after the sort of civilities men, be they 
of the world or the Church, think it only right to interchange, they 
parted, and Robert entered his sire’s sanctum. 

The baronet greeted his son with every show of affeclion, alluding 
incidentally to the strong testimony in his favor he had heard from 
the lips of Father L’lsle. A few rapid utterances in reply, by 
Robert, soon demonstrated to his father the positive accuracy of 
what the priest had asserted. The young man was a skeleton, weak 
as water, ana gentle as a lamb. But he had acquired one of the 
chief cachets of breeding — a quality which may be defined, para- 
doxically, as unconsciousness. Before, he had been painfully aware 
■ of his inferioity, and to cover it had adopted a manner of brusiiue 
independence. Nowq he had bidden a long farewell to all his pride, 
and the outcome was a sudden development of innate courtesy. He 
was at his ease, and his tongue flowed naturally, consequently his 
errors of grammar and pronunciation were less apparent. 

“1 have been pondering,” he said, “ over my future, and have 
asked the advice of that great and exalted soul to whom 1 owe all in 
the present, all in the future— 1 mean Father LTsle. Between us 
we have concocted a plan which 1 hope will meet with your appro- 
bation. May 1 state it in plain language?” 

“ 1 am most interested,” observed Sir Robert. 

“ Before 1 went abroad my mental vision was limited to w^hat 
Father L’lsle terms ‘ the good of this life.’ 1 saw the toiling hun- 
dreds on your land, 1 realized, as 1 had Shared, their hardships, and 
1 desired to ameliorate them. My notion was to divide and to level. 

1 have not ceased to desire to improve practically the lot of the 
laborer, but 1 have arrived at the conviction that to devote my 
entire life to any such humane project would be to a certain extent 
unsatisfactory. 1 appreciate now the immense value of the future 
as contrasted with the present; and am quite certain that l should 
be rendering the laborers a grander service by persuading them to 
acquire the true riches than by any attempt, even if it were success- 
ful, to secure them move beer* to drink; for that, 1 fear, is very much 
what more wages means.” 

“ Capital!” almost screamed Sir Robert, grasping his son by the 
hand. “ It does my heart good to hear you speak in terms of sober 


U^-DER AVHIOH KING? 305 

common-sense, and to think that you have discarded that vile com- 
munism. This is indeed a change for the better.’'’ 

“ 1 don’t want to be misunderstood,” answered Robert. ” If 1 
were in a position of responsibility, like that you now hold, 1 should 
feel it a matter of duty to take as warm an interest in the men on 
the estate 1 owned as though they were my brothers. The tenants 
would pay them their weekly wage, but 1 should provide each man 
with land sufficient to enable him to double his fixed earnings, and 
with money also to start with. 1 am afraid, too, that 1 should be 
tyrant enough to turn the Marmyon Aims into a club, and cut off 
the supply of poison at the main.” 

” Yes?” smiled the baronet, ” Well — some day ” — with a sigh 
— “ when 1 am gone, you may have the chance of your Utopia. But 
you weie speaking of yourself — of your future?” 

” 1 have been compelled,” continued the younger man, “ to allude 
to my motives, in order to explain the nature of this plan, which 1 
trust you may approve. In a word, 1 was, as it weie, till yesterday, 
before all thiugs humanitarian. 1 am now, before all things, relig- 
ious. As Father L’Isle puts it, time was when i desired the greatest 
happiness of the greatest number in this life. INow 1 add to that 
desire the still more earnest wish for the greatest happiness of the 
greatest number ia the next.” 

” A sort of spiritual Benthamism,” soliloquized Sir Robert, as he 
motioned him to proceed. 

“ That being so, my mission is not the world, but the Church.” 

“ The Church!” cried Sir Robert, amazed. “ Er— ah, my dear 
sou, 1 Lope 3X)u mean the er — ah, (ffiurch of England. Dissent is my, 
er— ah — detestation, and although some of the best and oldest families 
of the country are Roman Catholic, 1 have never yet been quite able 
to understand how a man with a very keen sense of honor can in- 
dorse the principles of the Jesuits. But of course Roman Catho- 
licism, if an objectionable, is decidedly a gentlemanly religion, 
■whereas Dissent, apart from its infernal Radicalism, is very much 
the reverse.” 

Robert smiled. “ 1 don’t suppose,” he replied, “ if 1 thought a 
creed was true, that 1 should slop to inquire whether it was genteel 
or vulgar. However, to relieve your mind, I may as well say at 
once that my Chinch is that of Father L’Isle. The Church of Eng- 
land— but the new Church of England, the Church which is in the 
fore-front of the battle, not only in England, but in America.” 

“ You mean, 1 suppose, what is termed Ritualism.” 

“ Something of the sort, though for myself 1 caie less for the shell, 
however beautiful it may be than for the kernel, for the faith rather 
than for the form. ” 

“ Well, my dear sir, 1 have known in my time one or two men, 
and women too, who belong to the creme cle la creme, and yet are 
ardent Ritualists. Ergo, so far, so good. You will, I presume, 
study for the Church, and that alone will be of immense benefit to 
you, for your education hitherto has been, alas, nil. But, may 1 
ask,’ do you contemplate abjuring marriage and that sort of thing?” 

Robert sighed. “ Who should 1 marry?” he asked, plaintively. 

“ I am not suggesting any one,” replied the baronet. * 1 was 


306 TINDER WHTOH KING? 

only inquiring whether Father L’lsle’s particular phase ot belief 
necessitates celibacy?” 

” Marriage,” answered Robert, sadly, ” ought to be love. 1 have 
loved once — but, never again,” 

” !So you seriously think of being a celibate?” 

“ 1 have not thought that; but 1 have no thought of any other 
state. It would be impossible.” 

The baronet pondered deeply. The more he reflected on this plan 
the better he liked it. It seemed to cut the knot ot all difiiculties, 
and would virtually render Errol, or Errol’s son, the ultimate heir. 


CHAPTER XLVlll. 

love’s climax. * 

” Have you ever seen Reffern Lake?” inquired Lady Marmyon of 
Mrs. Frankalmoign at breakfast on the morning following. ' ” No? 
AVell, what do you say to a sort of picnic there— famille, you 
know — only ourselves?” 

” Charming,” replied that lady. ” A lovely morning. You must 
persuade Robert to come, Planny. Poor fellow, how white he 
looks; and he is really so very nice.” 

” 1 think,” smiled Plantagenet, ” that Miss Ida’s powers ot per- 
suasion exceed mine; but .1 will try.” 

This speech was rather of the nature of maumisepUasaniry, but it 
was deserved. Ida had had a hint to cultivate Robert, and, in a sheer 
spirit of mischief, had followed it up so successfully as to have com- 
pletely fascinated that unsophisticated young man. ”1 never be- 
fore,” she remarked sarcastically, to her mother. ” in the whole 
course ot my life have had the chance of hobnobbing with a real, 
live, male cad. It is an experience, at all events, and it amuses me. 
In society every one looks at everything from precisely the same 
angle, but this fellow seems to have seen everything round a corner. 
His ideas are really so extraordinary as to be quite refreshing.” 

The great lady of the house having pronounced in favor ot this 
expedition to Reffern Lake, it came off accordingly. Father L’lsle 
with his friend Mr. Mackestrey, had left the Court, so the party 
consisted solely of Sir Robert and my lady^ Mrs. Frankalmoign and 
Ida, Plantagenet and Robert, The drag easily accommodated them, 
plus the flunkies and luncheon-baskets, and Phoebus was more than 
propitious; indeed, that coy deity positively beamed upon their 
progress from Marmyon to Reffern. 

As they drove in fine style through the Park gates and across the 
village green, Ida contrived completely to engross Robert in conver- 
sation. But for that circumstance he might have been more than 
startled, inasmuch as at the familiar door ot Shepherd AVilliams’s 
cottage stood a gentle girlish figure with a pale and troubled face, 
and an eye that as it fastened on Ida and perceived how apparently 
she held him in the palm of her hand, dilated strangely — one might 
say truthfully in a fashion most weirdlike and unearthly. 

And yet Miss Ida’s chatter was alike frivolous and harmless. The 
girl was simply amusing herself as girls will who have been thwarted. 
” How far did you say it was to 'Reffern Lake?” she asked. 


'CJXDER WHICH KIHG? 307 

“ Not far. About six miles. Quite an easy distance. 1 suppose 
you admire scenery, Mr. Marmyon?” 

“Yes; but Tve not seen much.’' 

“ Incieedv You have been in America, haven’t you?” 

“ That 1 have, Miss Ida he called lier Miss Ida much as though 
he were a groom — “ only one doesn’t quite appreciate scenery, how- 
ever beautiful it may be, when you are running for dear life.” 

“ Well, no, 1 should imagine not. And pray, IMr. Marmyon, 
when you were young did you live in this village? And which was 
your — ahem — residence?” 

“ Oh, yes, Miss Ida, the village was my home, and the public 
house there across the green was where 1 lived.’' 

“How very odd! And Vv^hen you grew up did you plow and 
harrow and reap and thresh and all that sort of thing — and was it 
interesting, don’t you know?” 

“ 1 labored,” replied Robert, gravely, “ like any other laborer in 
Ihe fields. 1 believe, too, 1 may boast, that in one purely Kentish 
art — that called nidgeting — 1 was considered the best man in the 
parish.” 

“Nidgeting? What a delicious word! Nidget. Thou nidgets. 
He nidgets. We nidget. Ye nidget. They nidget. 1 wonder what 
the Yrencb for ‘ nidget ’ is?”, 

“ That’s beyond me,” smiled Robert, who didn’t at all perceive 
the sour sneer underlying Ida’s sweet dreamy smile, “ All I know 
is that Farmer Rodd paid me four shillings a day for the job,” 

“Four shillings a day! What a nasty mean thing — the idea!” 
ejaculated the young lady, who really thought such a wage-rate 
ridiculously low — perhaps it is. “ AYhy, Mr. Marmyon, one couldn’t 
keep one’s self in scent on such a pittance.” 

“ Scent,” observed Robert, laughing, “ is not an absolute necessity 
of life — for laboring men. You will hardly believe me when 1 say 
that my regular wages were not lour, but three shillings a day, and 
yet that 1 was fairly content to work on from week’s end to week’s 
end.” 

“ It certainly exhibits the irony of fate in a very ridiculous light,” 
obserml Ida. “ Fancy you, Mr. Marmyon, the heir of such a noble 
place, and the head of so ancient a house, descending to so very low 
a level. 1 wonder you can bear to think of it. It would seem to me 
like a hideous nightmare.” 

“ Nothing of the kind,” protested Robert. “ I’m not ashamed of 
having earned my own dinner.” 

“ Of course,” demurely added Miss Ida, who began to think, 
from a slight flush on Robert’s face, that she might have sauT just 
one word too much, “ the special knowledge you have acquired of 
agriculture, and all that sort of thing, will be of immense value to 
you one day. 1 quite see the force of that.” 

‘ Now, if clever Miss Ida had designed to titillate Robert’s percep- 
tions pleasurably, she could hardly have invented anything more 
suitable for that purpose than this dry practical utterance. It set 
the young man’s tongue a-wagging nineteen to the dozen, until at 
last the drag came to halt by the" shore of Reffern Lake— a big pond 
it would have been styled anywhere out of Kent. 

Here, naturally, the party regrouped itself, and for th^ space intac^ 


308 


rXDER WHICH KTHG? 

vening before limcbeou Ida lell to the lot of Plaiitagenet, and Mrs. 
Frankalmoign devoted herself to the gratifying taste ot extolling 
her daughter’s beauty and virtues in Robert’s listening ear. 

“ So,” said that diplomatic woman of the world, ” 1 hear Mr. 
Robert, that you have devoted yourself to the Church. That is a 
very, very good resolve. 1 dote on the Church. It is a quite too 
charming profession, and as for Ida— she has often declared that 
with her idealism it would be insanity for her to marry anybody ex- 
cept a clergyman. A duke made her an offer — 1 may tell you in 
strict contidence—only last week, and she responded with a sigh, 
‘ If only your grace had been a bishop!’ ” 

“Peihaps,” retorted Robert, ‘‘Miss Ida didn’t relish the man 
himself. Some dukes are not young.” 

‘‘ Quite so, quite. But you are too sarcastic, Mr. Robert, for a 
clergyman. And pray, are you High Church, Low Church, or — 
ahem — any other Church ‘f” 

‘‘ 1 really can’t answer you,” replied Robert, ‘‘ 1 don’t know.’* 

‘‘ The very echo of what my dear Ida says. She has no cut-and- 
dried principles, don’t you know, no prejudices.” 

” Except,” interposed Lady Marmyon, ” in favor of galantine, 1 
hope. Come, good people, luncheon!” 

Luncheon at most picnics is arranged on the principle that the la- 
dies shall eat and the gentlemen wait. The party on the present 
occasion being ot small proportions, both sexes fared equally well — 
in fact, what with luxurious viands and sparkling wines, Robert 
seemed gayer than he had felt since his Bohemian experiences in 
’Frisco. 

‘‘ How very well Ida gets on with Robert,” remarked one lady. 

‘‘ How very well Robert gets on with Ida,” echoed the other. 

And so. that being a phenomenon of the obvious sort, the polite- 
ness of the company induced them to so arrange that this pair 
should be left to their own devices. 

Reflern Lake is fed by a small rivulet which flows into it at the 
further end, the lake itself being leg-of-mutton shaped, and narrow- 
ing toward the extremity. About one hundred yards above the 
junction ot the lake and stream — the proprietor of the demesne being 
a gentleman of taste— an ornamental bridge has been thrown across, 
and at that point the water is deepest. loward this point Ida 
Frankalmoign, with Robert for cavalier, strolled leisurely at some 
distance from the others, in a pathway of greensward, overhung by 
the waving branches ot splendid forest-trees. As they advanced, 
Ida noticed the figure ot a girl stationed on the bridge itself at its 
center, and leaning over the parapet with eyes fixed on them— mean- 
ingfully. 

Robert, how^ever, half -intoxicated by the charm of the conversa 
tion, and magnetized by a flattery tenfold more attractive by being 
so delicate, had his eyes so riveted to Ida’s really beautiful face as 
to be quite lost to every surrounding object. He was indeed indulg 
mg in a rather disjointed description of Californian mining for his 
fair partner’s delectation— she, by the bye, caiing as much about 
mining as about the diflerential calculus or the obscure readings of 
the Prometheus— w^heu suddenly Ida gave such a start, and ernitted 


TJN-DER -^HICH KIKG? 309 

such a gnsp of liorror, as brought him down heavily from wild 
fancy to stern tact. 

‘‘Whatever is that girl going to do?” whispered she, at once 
pointing her finger and trembling. ” Is she mad? Can’t you stop 
her? Oh, Mr. Marmyon! See! see!” 

See! Ida Frankalmoign had iiu need to utter that injunction. 
Robert’s eyes could not deceive him. They were too close to the 
girl tor that, and, indeed, ere Ida had hurled forth her hasty ejacu- 
lations, he had broken from her side and made, headlong tor the 
bridge. 

The figure was that ot a young girl— of the young girl who had 
watched the Marmyon drag pass Shepherd AVilliams’s cottage, of 
the young girl whose faithful heart had taken her all the way to 
Kew Itork tor his sake, and who had arrived there only to read in 
the papers the account of how the missing heir ot Marmyon had 
tuiued up in Manhattan itselt; ot the young girl who had journeyed 
tack with all speed from America in high hope, to read at a glance 
in the mirror of imagination the destiny ot the man she loved, and 
to^believe that after all he was not for her, but for some one whose 
hands had never been defiled with soapsuds, who had been nuitured 
delicatelj^ and was the equal of his new and superb relatives. 

It was that maddening thouglit'that drove her to follow afoot the 
trail of the Marmyon thorough -breds. It was the sense of all being 
lost that caused lier to crave for a verdict — ay, betore them all he 
should take her to him or cast her from him. 

And so she came, and stood afar off, watching. And she saw 
them all part right and left, so as to allow Robert, and Ida to mate. 
She saw him gaze into Ida’s eyes, and linger on her words, and talk 
as she knew he could talk. And in her simple .soul she set all this 
down to the score of love, and as the wave of despair passed over 
her she yielded to it helplessly, as has many a maiden ere now be- 
fore Polly Williams. 

She had mounted the parapet of the bridge; she bad waved a 
farewell to Robert Marmyon; she' had cast one last look at the beau- 
tiful sun, when a glance told her that he was already hurrying 
toward her. Then she would have paused, gladly, but anon her 
head reeled, her foot failed her, and with a shriek she fell down into 
twenty feet ot crystal water ere ever Robert could clutch her dress. 

‘‘ Save her! who will save her?” cried the agonized voice of the 
man— man at that moment of extremity once more—” 1 can not 

SWIMl” 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

SAVED. 

Robert Marmyon’ s cry ot horror rose to high heaven, and it 
seemed for the nonce as though,. infected by a sudden madness akin 
to hers, he was about to cast himself headlong into the waters be- 
neath which Polly had already sunk. But at this supreme moment 
there was one at hand ready to save— a man of prowess, an athlete, 
and gifted with the cool courage which the strong alone can boast. 
■With fine promptitude, yet with a semblance of leisureliness. Plan- 


310 TODER WHICH KIIs'G? 

tagenet flung off his coat, plunged into the lake, and swam with 
ease and rapidity to^’^a^d the brid^ge. The women on the bank held 
their breath. Robert sobbed tor" very impotence, yet it needed no 
herald to assure them of the certainty of the girl’s safety. That 
iron arm which had by its own colossal force dragged the Dark 
Blue ship to victory at Mortlake, the arm that was the heritage of 
centuries, nay more, of eras, of muscular exertion, gripped as in a 
vise Poll 3 '’’s dress, then caught her firmly and upheld her head 
above water, and finally placed her, as it were a toy, on the green- 
sward of Reffern Lake. 

Robert was there waiting to receive her. In his arms he bore her 
apart, and he remembered afterward how — thanks to the magic of 
good breeding — they all, appreciating the situation, kept aloof, and 
allowed him to be the first to administer balm to the still terrified, 
dazed, and hysterical girl. She did not speak, though she was 
conscious quite, but the luster of her eye spoke volumes as Robert, in 
his own old, homely, Kentish tongue, poured forth once again the 
old, homely, Kentish words of endearment — the echoes of Flesset 
Wood. 

At last, however. Sir Robert with diffidence came forward. 

“ i think — er — ah — ” he said, in a low and by no means unsym- 
pathetic tone, “that — er— ah— a little brandy would be advisable. 
But unluckily that is the sort of fluid we do not usually carrj'’ about 
with us. There is sherry, however. "You had better, Robert, try 
and get her to swallow some.” 

“ That is very kind of you: yes, please, if they will fetch it from 
the carriage.” 

“ Quite so. 1 will give orders at once. And 1 think after this— 
er— ah— untoward incident we shall all of us think about returning. 
Suppose— as we are by preference, on this lovely day, outsides on 
the drag— suppose we put her inside, and take her to her home, 
poor thing?” 

Robert, with a tear in his eye, could but again express his grati- 
tude; and then Lady Marmj’-on came up, and in a grand patronizing 
way, remarked, sottovoce, “ She is shivering. I think there is a wrap 
of mine somewhere in the drag;” and next IMrs. Frankalmoign add- 
ed, in a stage whisper, “ What a really exquisitely beautiful face. 
But wLat does it all mean?” 

“ Mash— mother!” muttered Ida, with a sarcastic moiie. 

Plantagenet alone had stood aside. He was in a very unpleasant 
predicament, having enjoj^ed the luxury of a cold bath with his in- 
expressibles and shirt on. It would have been pleasing to his sen- 
sibilities to have divested himself of those moist and dripping gar- 
ments. Hot, however, enjoying the glorious freedom of the salvage, 
this arrangement appeared just now rather less than feasible. Luck- 
ily, however, his coat was dry, and it contained cigars and matches. 
So he lighted up, gulped down a tumbler of fluid, and in a cheery 
voice protested that he never felt better.' 

He might well say so. For while Lady Marmj'on, with matronly 
solicitude, was wuinging the water out of Polly’s clothes, a perform- 
ance necessitating the temporary absence of the male sex, Robert 
walked up to him, clutched his hand and said, “ Sir, no man was 
ever indebted to another more deeply than 1 am to you. If 1 w^ere 


UXDER WHICH KIHG? 311 

worthy to beg the honor, 1 would plead to be allowed to call you 
brother.” 

‘‘ Tut, tut, my good fellow,” replied Plantagenet, with an Oxoni- 
an’s hatred of tall talk. ‘‘That’s all light. It you could swim, 
you would have tlone as much. Lucky 1 chanced to he on the spot.” 

But that was not all. There was a spice of romance still Hngering 
in Ida. The young lady in the days of her pupilage had been ar- 
dently addicted to hero worship, and it was only the nil adnnrari, 
blase cynicism of society that had effaced this not ignoble senti- 
ment. She had ceased to believe in heroism, because the heroes she 
met in the flesh were, in respect of the petit maUre accomplishments 
so dear to feminine intuitions, vastly inferior to gommeux of the 
Horace St. Vincent type. But when ante ocvlos she saw a strong 
man save a human life from destruction and repudiate praise after- 
ward with something like indiirnation, her soul seemed to warm 
tow'ard that same exemplar of ideal manhood. 

In a word, she quietly but firmly, nialgre mamma’s frowns, took 
the big fellow in hand, and gave him a glorious afternoon. Her 
most winning wa 5 ^s, her sweetest smiles, her liveliest chaff w^ere all 
for him, and when suddenly remembering himself, he gloomed over 
and with gall on his tongue reminded her that he was Hodge — noth- 
ing but Hodge— she replied, prettily, “You have proved yourself 
Plantagenet in name and Plantagenet in nature.” 

A.nd so. to the lofty surprise of the august flunkies, Polly, bewil- 
dered still anddrembling, was supported by Robert to the drag, and 
as he took his place by her alone inside, the party drove away home- 
ward, while less than an hour afterward the village was electrifled 
b}’’ perceiving the drag draw up at Shepherd 'Williams’s cottage, 
and deposit thereat not only poor Polly Williams, but also the heir 
of the vast demesne of Marmyon. 

Robert could not, w^ould not leave her. At his entreaty the local 
Esculaplus was summoned to attend her. The shepherd improvised 
a shake-down bed tor him by the kitchen fire, and he smoked his 
pipe with that humble but honest son of toil, as of yore, the sole 
difference between them and now being that he resolutely declined 
Miss Belinda’s brew'^er’s chemicals. 

Little by little he heard all. How he had been willfully deceived 
by a tricky Irish -American into disbelieving the truest of hearts. 
How she had gone to London to seek him, but again hail encount- 
ered something like treacher 5 ^ How — at last — she had actually 
traveled alone, with no other fegis than beauty, simpliciW, and mod- 
esty, with no guide and no friend, from that humble home, across 
the wide ocean to iS'ew York, and back again. 

“ And you wmn’t, Robert, I do hope,” pleaded ]\Irs. Williams, 
earnestly— ” you won’t be so ’ard-’earted as to jilt the poor thing 
arter all that there?” 

“dill!” cried Robert, “Well, Mrs. Williams, you have aright 
to reproach me. 1 have been a vain and false fool, and am un- 
worthy of such a irrasure. No. If 1 were to jilt her, I should be 
deservirg of the fate of Cain. There is that which is more priceless 
than riches, honors, all that men covet, and 1 tremble to think that 
she may consider that of such love as she has given 1 am not wor- 
thy.” 


312 Uls’DER WHICH- KING? 

“ Perhaps you hain’t,” retorted Mis. Williams, “ But that ain’t 
in Pol’s mind. ” 

Nor was it. Polly forgot, forgave, and hoped, for Robert was 
stanch. He ofiended to the verge of exasperation their miorliti- 
nesses at the Court by continuing to live on in a hugger-mugger 
style at the honest shepherd’s house. He cast prudence, it not duty, 
to the four winds. Finally, although he adhered to his resolve, if 
possible, to embrace the sacred profession, he was prepared to carry 
out his part of the pact by emigrating to one of tiie, colonies, and ac- 
cepting ordination at the hands of a colonial bishop; indeed he was 
about to announce this his determination to Sir Robert, when events 
occurred which turned the tide of his life in a different direction: 
for there are yet some threads to be unraveled in the tangled web of 
this veracious narrative. 


CHAPTER L. 

nONOR AMONG THIEVES. 

The Central Democratic Leverage Union in Whitechapel hap- 
pened not to be in a very flourisliing condition in regard of funds at 
this particular period of its llistory. Mr. Hercules Flaymar had 
been confining his oratorical energy to the metropolitan district, for 
the simple reason that he could not raise the necessary money for a 
provincial tour, and his brother Arcadian, the faitliful Ferretman, 
was at the lowest ebb, legal business of his sort, l.e., connected with 
the County Courts, being singularly slack. In tact, the pair met 
one fine morning, sans breakfast, and with a smallest probability of 
dinner. 

“ f^erretman,” quoth Flaymar, after a hasty wag of his friend’s 
not very clean paw, “ oblige me with sixpence for iialf an hour! 1 
— ahem — must positively have a cup of coffee and a roll. I’m no- 
where.” 

” Haven’t got a mag,” responded the other. ” You couldn’t 
raise a bob for two cups and two rolls, could you?” 

‘‘1 thought,” said Flaymar, scornfully, “that some client of 
yours, Digman, Migman, Bigman — you know who 1 mean — was go- 
ing to part? 1 don’t much see the use of being a lawyer if your cli- 
ents never pay. ” 

“Nor,” retorted Ferretman, “of being a popular • leader if the 
populace won’t shell out. I’m hungry.” 

“ So am 1,” muttered Hercules Flaymar, fiercely. 

“ And 1 don’t see my road to anything in particular between now 
and to-morrow,” grunted Mr. Ferretman. 

“ Nor I. Couldn’t you manage a copper or so? A roll without 
the coffee might be preferable to nothing.” 

“ I’m good for a half-penny and a faiHiing,” laughed the lawyer, 
bitterly, extracting these coins from his pocket. 

“ And I,” growled Flaymar, “ can raise a — a”— fumbling in his 
pockets— “a far— no, by the powers; it’s a threepenny bit, and 1 
didn’t dream 1 was so rich. That’s two penny rolls and — ” 

“ Better say cheese,” observed the other, turning down the corner 
of his mouth. “ It sticks— docs cheese!” 


TODER WHICH KIHG? 313 

“The awkwardness is,” replied Flaymar, ‘‘that my silver and 
your browns don’t make the requisite lourpence.” 

“ What’s the odds?” 

‘‘ 1 really couldn’t ask for three ha’porth of cheese.” 

‘‘ You couldn’t? 1 could. 1 should tell them 1 wanted it to bait 
the mouse-trap with.” 

‘‘ And then they’d give it you walking about! No, not for me!” 

‘‘ Well, Flaymar,” responded the Jawyer, “ I don’t mind, as 
you’re that proud. 1 don’t mind, tor friendship's sake, going round 
the corner and buying the grub, or you can go if you’d rather.” 

” Faugh!” snorted the august Flaymar, ‘‘ to think of the future 
President of the Great British llepublic, chaffering about cheese! 
There, my good fellow, take your blessed threepenny bit and my 
blessing! Make tracks for the coffee-shop and look sharp back, for 
the President of the llepublic is empty.” 

‘‘ All right,” sniveled Ferretman, grasping the small coin and dis- 
appearing like greased lightning. 

In about ten minutes, Ihe mice of the Democratic Leverage Union, 
the only democrats, bar Mr. Flaymar, on the spot, might, if they 
had had the requisite auial organization, have heard their migiity 
orator inquire of his inner anxious man what could have kept Fer- 
retman? Ten minutes later they might have heard language savor- 
ing strangely of impatience, combined, moreover, with indignation. 
Yet ten minutes more and Hercules Flaymar’s utterance would not 
have stood the test of stenograph The fellow wms raging and rav- 
ing, conscious now of the painful tiuth that his bosom-friend, his 
fi^s Achates, Ferretman — Ferretman the destined Vice-president of 
a llepublic whose flag would float over at least five continents — 
more it they could be discovered — had been so unutterably base as 
to levant with the last token bearing the despised image and super- 
scription of royalty —the very last that he could call his own. 

Apropos, there was no further collation at iiand than the cud of 
bitter disappointment. So he relieved his raging hunger by chewing 
that and a quill pen, pausing every now and then to fire off an un- 
pronounceable word, like the minute-gun at sea of Russell’s forgot- 
ten song. 

fie had just delivered himself, with the fury of a bull of Bashan, 
of a malediction on the infinitesimal orbits of Mr. Ferretman, when 
a tap at the door aroused his warmest expectations. It could not be 
the truant son of Themis— he would enter without that formula. 
But it might be some one with the fraction of sixpence handy, and 
under the circumstances anj^body wmold do— even a Tory. 

‘‘ Come in, whoever you are,” he yelled. 

‘‘ ]\le name, sorr, is Frayney. Oi’rn from ’Frisco, sure, and Oi’d 
an appointment to mate an ould friend of moine at this same loca- 
tion, sorr. Me friend, sorr, is called jMoike Conolly, sure, and—’' 

” Sir,” said Hercules Flaymar, grasping his hand\as though it were 
a stiff pump-handle, and exhibiting an excess of histrionic emotion 
— ” sir, the man you name is my dearest friend in the world, and 
one who calls him by that sacred name is consecrated, sir, in my 
eyes. 1 would ask you, sir, to ratify this happy meeting by a pledge 
of affection— a loving cup— but my clerk is unfortunately absent for 
the moment, and he has the keys of the cash-box, ” 


314 UNDER WHICH KING? 

“ Thim felleys,” remarked Frayney, “is always on iverybodie’s 
business except their own, h’when they’re wanted, sure. Hut, me 
dear sorr, if ye’ll do me the honor now?” 

“ Don’t mention it,” observed Hercules with an air of splendid 
patronage. ‘‘ You shall stand treat to me, and next time the process 
shall be reversed. The Maculate Boar boasts the best drink in this 
locality, and their pork-pies are — Do you ever eat pork-pies?” 

” Bedad, Oi’m not porticular, sorr. But, atther you.” 

Pies of equivocal pig, and stout containing every variety of nasti- 
ness conceivable, quite exhilarated Hercules. He orated loudly. He 
glorified himself in the presence of a sweep, a coster, and a slaugh- 
terman. He rolled his eyes, and patted Frayney affectionately on 
the back. His whole nature underwent a transformation scene, and 
when he emerged from the portals of that filthy tavern, his demeanor 
was — splendid. 

They were strolling back to his office, as Frayney xmt it, ” arrum- 
in-arrum,” when the latter suddenly started, and averted his head 
clumsily. 

But to' no purpose. In a trice a stout gentleman of rather martial 
gait had confronted him with, “Halloo, hal-loo, ray — friend, w^e 
have met before?” 

It was Frayney 's turn now to metamorphose himself, and he did 
so promptly, chanaing from (he mildest bon enfant to the reckless 
rowdy, with the rapidity of a histrionic chameleon. 

“ You’d better not round on won of us,” growjed he, between his 
teeth. “ Bedad, thin, it’s mesilf knows Capthain Dol’py, as well as 
he knows me.” 

“ Come, come,” cried that amiable worthy, “ what’s the fun of 
this style of thing? We’re friends, aren’t we, Pat Frayney? Here, 
my boy, introduce me to your pal, whoever he is, and come to my 
warehouse if you want to take a really superlative glass of the real 
thing.” 

The eyes of Hercules Flaymar twinkled. What! IVIore liquor? 
Biscuits, too, probably 1 He would lay in a store of provisions inter- 
nally, sufficient to last till to-morrow’s breakfast, or even longer. 

“"Your most obedient,” responded Frayney, dropping the rowdy 
sharp, “ and Oi’ll be proud, Oi will, to taste your lionoi’s potheen. 
But— awish!— jist won little minit. Oi’m on the lookout for a dar- 
lint bhoy — won Moike Conolly.” 

“ What!” cried Dolopy, under his breath. “ Then Mike escaped, 
did he? I fancied you both had been — ” 

“ Sorra a bit, capthain. But be this and be that, Moike’s nose is 
vis’ble to the naked oye there sitthin’ in your office, Misther Flay- 
niar. Pass the worrud, sorr. Moike wmuld be grayved, he w^ould, 
to be annyh’w'heres except h’where the dhrink was.” 

In half a second Mike had joined them, and to his amazement re- 
ceived the warmest wmlcome from Captain Dolopy. Without delay 
they all adjourned to that gentleman’s factory, w-heu, under the in- 
fluence of vintage wines manufactured in accordance wu'tii the latest 
researches of an enlightened practical chemist on the premises, the 
human tongue began to wag furiously. 

This, apparently, was very much in accordance with the wishes of 
Captain Dolopy, who was anxious, for reasons of his own, both to 


UI^DEPt WHICH KIHG? 315 

improve this chance meeting, and also to ascertain, as a prelimi- 
nary, who and what (he large man, with the large mouth and large 
ideas, might be. 

On this latter point he was not left long in the dark. It was never 
the custom ot Hercules Flaymar to enter any society without ]>ro- 
claiming the nature of his mission; but when his rhetoric happened 
to be quickened by alcohol, an innate genius for self-laudation be- 
came intensihed. 

“ You, sir,’’ he said, with vinous tears in his eyes, “ must surely 
be a Republican. Your every word, act, thought, demonstrates a 
large sympathy with the aspirations of humanity.” 

” Certainly,” replied the captain. “ You anticipate my sentiments 
in a very remarkable degree. But if you wish me to "vote for the 
Democratic ticket, you must first show me that I’m going to make a 
pull out of it somehow— as a matter of business, you know?” 

Hercules Flaymar, for the first time in his life, telt posed, more 
esi)ecially as his Hibernian friends showed signs of laughing at his 
discomfiture. 

‘‘ The pull, sir,” he stammered, “ is perfect equality.” 

“ Indeed r replied Dolopy. “Then that’s not good enough. If 
you can make me a preference shareholder, or give me a seat on 
the board. I’ll underwrite, provided your company looks like taking 
the public; not otherwise.” 

” The capiain’s a business man,” quoth Frayney, admiringly. 
“ It’s the winnin’ hoise he’s for ridin’, sure!” 

” Riiilit you are,” answered Dolopy, in his normal, sharp, crisp 
way. ” And, by the bye, as we are here, there may be a bit of busi- 
ness to be arranged. Listen. When that rough specimen of aris- 
tocracy, Robert Marmyou, gave every one the slip, he fell in with a 
certain par.son, a dodger who could turn a chap like that round his 
finger. Well, the parson found him one of ^mur sort, sir — turning 
to "Flaymar — a Republican. He converted him kerslap to Tory 
principles and religion. To cut my tale short, the fellow has 
dropped your lot forever, and means to turn parson himself.” 

” impossible!” roared Flaymar. ” He daren’t!” 

” Tm not gassing,” replied Dolopy. ” It’s fact. But it would 
not signify a button were it not that I and others are interested in 
Errol Marmyon succeeding to the family estates. Now, gentlemen, 
you have that sort of wunk w’hich is said to be as good as a nod.” 

” Bedad, thin,” remarked Mike, earnestly, ” it not iuconvaynient, 
it moight be agrayable to arrange an interview wid that same 
Misther Errol ]VLirm3mn.” 

” Right, Suppose we say to-morrow, at noon? This place, 
i'ou’ll find some liquors going at that hour, and I’ll bring my man 
up to town. And now, gentlemen, to men engaged in finance — as 1 
am —time is the one most necessary article next to money, so for- 
give me if 1 say au revoir till to-morrow” 

At this hint "they all trooped out; Flaymar, however, an instant 
after hurrying back. 

” Beg pardon,” he said, " but my clerk has gone to— ahem— Hox- 
ton on "business. 1 must keep my eye on these Irishmen, or they’ll 
be oil on the spree. Could you advance me a little loose silver till 
to-morrow?” 


316 


HINDER WHICH KIHH? 

Captain Dolony’s face wore a shade of suspicion, hut he fished 
out five shillings, albeit with the air of a man who was tapping his 
heart’s blood. 

“ Thanks, much,” returned Hercules, airily, as he at once hurried 
after his Hibernian friends. 

The trio marched leisurely to the quarters of the Central Demo- 
cratic Leverage Union, the president of that important political 
organization feeling about two foot taller as he jingled the brace of 
half-crowns in his pocket. At the door tliey discovered a very small 
boy with a veiy empty inside, a very eacrer countenance, and clothes, 
or rather fractures of what once might have been clothes, to match. 
'I’he child appeared to have washed his face in the dirtiest puddle in 
Whitechapel, and his feet, which were visible to the naked eye, in 
something even filthier. Technically this boy would be termed a 
waif or an Arab. Practically he was one of those accidents of an 
exalted civilization that are talKed about and written about and 
preached about, but are left to hunger on, and thieve on, and 
learn the fine arts of criminality under the ablest professors of 
the most distinguished school in the universe. 

” Please, sir, ""are you Mister Flamin’?” 

“My name,” responded Hercules, magnificently, “Is Flaymar. 
Flayrnar, remember. What have you got there, my boy?” 

“ Gentleman give me this letter for Mister Flamin’, and he say, 
says he, take that to Mister Flamin’, he says, and he’ll give you a 
penny.” 

“ Give me the letter.” 

“ Isot afore you gives me the penny. Walker!” 

In a case of this sort “ AValker ” sometimes means solviiur 
amhulando. Hercules therefore did not stop to argue, but in a trice 
gripped the boy and seized the letter. 

“ Wot a shame!” howled the hungry one. “ And you calls your- 
self a gentleman!” 

But Mr. Hercules Flaymar was too deeply engrossed in this 
epistle, which was written in pencil on the reverse portion of a 
poster, lorn down, apparently, from a boarding, to attend to the 
boy’s objurgations, or the pitiful appeal for bread which follow'ed 
tliem. Philanthropy of the slushy sort was not the foible of that 
great man, whose mind was so engrossed on the regeneration of the 
vspecies by the leverage of a political nostrum as to be incapable of 
recognizing individual grievances. 

Tire letter in question was penned, or rather penciled, by the 
astute and highly moral Mr. h'erretman. It ran thus: 

“ Deab Flaymak, — After much serious consideration 1 have 
come to the determination to resign my connection with the Central 
Democratic Leverage Union. Political agitation has already injured 
my business connection, besides occupying so large a portion of my 
time unprofitably. IMoreover, I should not be rendering my motives 
full justice if in tendering my resignation I omitted to state that my 
opinions have recently undergone some modification — in fact 1 have 
now decided in future to associate myself with the areat Tory party, 
which absorbs so large an amount of the wealth, education, and 
intelligence of this great country. 1 shall always entertain a strong 


317 


Ui^DER WHICH KING? 

personal regard tor you individually, and for your colleagues of the 
C. D. L. U., and you, 1 trust, will understand and api)reciate the 
line 1 have taken, and the honorable motives by which 1 am actuated. 

“ I remain, dear Flay mar, 

“ Yours faithfully, 

“ N. Ferretman. 

“ P.S. — I will make out my bill of costs. The 0. D. L. U. are 
indebted to me tor my i)rotessional services to the extent of about 
£100. From that total I deduct the sum ot threepence, advanced 
by you to me this morning. ]M. F.” 

“Ugh! Disgusting!” howled Mr. Hercules Flaymar, as after 
perusing this really abominable document he tore it into pieces, 
stamped them under his toot, and condemned them to eternal per- 
dition. After which solemn pertormance he was about to enter his 
office when the wretched boy plucked his coat with the piteous cr}’-; 
“Isay, guv’nor, acton the square. I’m werry hungry: ain’t ’ad 
no grub since—” 

But the sentence was cut short, tor ther heavy open palm ot the 
might orator and leader of men came down like a Nasmyth hammer 
on the boy’s cheek, and laid him fiat and howling in the gutter. 

Then this subliine moral force proudly passed his own portal, and 
in the sublime consciousness of speculative magnanimity slammed 
the door. 


CHAPTER LI. 

SIR ROBERT’S EYES ARE ORENED. 

Polly Williams did not recover quite so rapidly as the local 
Esculapiug imagined. The girl was, like most of Irer sex who have 
the benefit from childhood of country air and wholesome ways, ro- 
bust in respect of constitution, though her form and features were 
as delicate as those of the most refined lady. But for long weeks 
her mind had been overwrought; and tbougia she knew it not, or 
knowing, recked less than little, she was in a biglily febrile condition 
before the catastrophe at Retfern Lake. That shock to her system 
involved, in fact, consequences far more serious than the doctor, 
skillful as he was, could have anticipated. 

Orerher with ardent fidelity Robert kept watch and ward— in- 
deed it was with difficulty that Mrs. Williams persuaded him to go 
up to the Court in obedience to a rather peremptory mandate from 
his father — even for an hour. 

Pie did, however sufler himself to be so persuaded, and oddly 
enough, en route to fhe Court, met Plantagenet. 

“ Plow is the poor girl?” inquired that big man, bluntly. 

“ Bad,” responded Robert. 

“ Not in danger, 1 hope?” 

“ I’m not sure of that. Wish 1 was.” 

“ Ugh!” ejaculated Plantagenet, with a shrug of the shoulders, 
“ You’re sorry now it’s too late. After having played the part of a 
villain toward that poor — ” 

A villain!” 


318 UNDEE WHICH KIHG? 

“ Yes, a villain. Slie was your sweetheart. You had no just 
cause for jealousy, and, if you had, you ought not to have turned 
your back on her at the very moment when you were suddenly ele- 
vated from the plow to the Court. It didn’t look well, and that’s 
plain.” 

“You are hard on me, sir.” 

“No. 1 speak as a man ot honor. Had 1 stood in your shoes I 
would have fought for that girl, but 1 would never have deserted her. 
Your common-sense ought to have told you that the acme of baseness 
is to play tricks wdth a girl’s heart.” 

“You won’t have cause to blame me now,” w'as all that Robert 
could urge as he passed on toward the great house. 

He found Sir Robert rather fussy and worried. The baronet was 
polite and in manner cordial, but at a glance Robert perceived that 
his continued residence under Shepherd Wrlliams’s roof was galling 
to the great man’s pride. 

“ My dear fellow,” he began, “ I’ve sent for you to beg that 
you will resume some sort ot intercourse with your home. 1 raised 
no objection to youi absence tor the nonce— under the circumstances. 
We ail felt that so much devotion on your part was quite creditable 
and merited our respect. But there must be a limit. Your social 
position and that ot er— ah— the worthy shepherd are incompatible. 
You will, 1 conclude, marry his daujrhter, and 1 shall then set him 
up in a farm on your mother’s small estate in Huntingdonshire, for, 
of course, though you marry the girl you don’t marry her family. 
But, in the interim, please oblige me by preserving your station. 
Your relations, my dear son, are not shepherds and "that kind ot 
thing — they are gentle-people, humble gentle-people in their own 
way, but gentle people. ” 

‘*‘1 see,” said Robert. “You expect me to keep on my lion’s 
skin, though 1 am but an ass.” 

“Not so. 1 object to your wearing an ass’s skin, beirig as you 
area lion. But enough of metaphor^ Breakfast, dine, and sleep 
here, and devote your entire day to the poor sufferer. Is that a f air- 
compromise?” 

“ May 1 be excused dinner?” pleaded Robert, who rather dreaded 
that solemn social ordeal. 

“ Of course, it it must be so; that is, until you can give a more 
favorable report of your — er — ah — invalid.” 

Robert had it in his heart to open the ball about his future, but a 
glance at the baronet’s countenance warned him that the moment 
was inopportune; in fact, the latter broke out with, “1 am more 
than bothered, Robert. That fellow Horace St. Vincent, as you 
know, is Lady Marmyon’s cousin, and that circumstance renders our 
mutual relations exceedingly difficult. The fpllow is— cr — ah — a 
gentleman by birth, and very attractive in every w’ay, but he has the 
soul of a cad— of a cad, I repeat, Robert. Helms not only converted 
moneys with which 1 intrusted him, to his own base uses, gambling 
and profligacy, but he has had the effrontery to write and dmuand 
more, on account of alleged expenses in America. All 1 can say is, 
that if he were not a relative, 1 would crush him for a swindling 
rascal. ” And the baronet’s wrath caused him to cough and splutter. 

“ But that is not all The ruffian writer offers to sell certain vab 


UNDER AVHICH KING? 319 

uable information concerning Errol and Mrs. Frankalmoign. What 
does it all mean? 1 really don’t care, though the lady is under my 
roof now, to ask her; yet St. Vincent writes as though some hideous 
sword of Damocles, some disgrace, were impending. Upon my 
word, between you all my gray hairs will descend with sorrow to 
the grave.” 

“I’m sorry you include me,” remarked Eobert, gravely. 

” Er — ah — I don’t think Ido. Your errors, whatever they may 
be, lie on the surface. You’ve been tarred with a plebeian brush, 
but there’s no mystery about you — no deception. It’s a comfort to 
reflect that you at all events tell the truth,” 

‘‘ How do you do, Robert?” at this moment uttered a very lad}'- 
1 ike voice, and Mrs. Frankalmoign, unbidden, entered Sir Robert’s 
sanctum. It was indeed a very unusual occurrence for any mem- 
ber of her sex, with the single exception of my lady, to intrude with- 
in that sacred apartment, and the baronet looked at her as much as 
to say, ” 1 wonder if you’ve been eavesdropping?” His manner 
was, however, as usual, perfect, and he placed the lady in an arm- 
chair by his side, at the same time signaling to Robert to retire— a 
hint by no means lost, inasmuch as the young man was burning to 
return to Polly Williams, 

” JMy dear Sir Robert,” commenced the lady, in the most dulcet 
of tones, ‘‘I’ve come to — ahem— consult you — ” 

Sir Robert tried to smile, and bowed. “ About my dear child 
Ida. You know how unworldly the girl is; how impressionable, 
how simple, how very, very earnest. If 1 were to add that she was 
also inclined to be headstrong, 1 should not quite overstep the 
bounds of truth.” 

Sir Robert looked as much as to say, ” What next?” But he con- 
tented himself with another forced smile. ‘‘ 1 did hope— it was my 
ambition — that she w'ould bestow her affections on Errol, wno was 
only too anxious to come forward. But ’’—with a sigh—” it was 
not to be.” 

” Indeed!” remarked Sir Robert, quietly. ” We too hoped that 
the young people might agree, but of course Errol’s prospects have 
undergone a change.” 

“It is not thai — emphatically not. 1 think, that is to say 1 be- 
lieve, that Errol would have gained Ida but for an adverse influence 
— Horace St. Vincent.” 

” Blackguard!” muttered the baronet between his teeth. 

” A.S you remark,” said the lady, pursily, “a most undesirable 
attachment! Happily, Ida is disillusioned, and lor what reason 1 
need not say. She came here with paled roses and an empty heart. 
You may have remarked that her roses have returned, and that her 
spirits have regained their elasticity?” 

” I’m veiT glad. Marrayon air is splendid.” 

” That is not all. Ida is not one of those girls who can exist on 
mere air. She must be under an influence, and when the influence 
is genial she thrives.” 

Sir Robert assumed a puzzled air. This was an enigma. 

” And that is the reason,” continued Mrs. Frankalmoign, ” why 
I have ventured to intrude on Sir Robert Marmyon’s privacy this 
morning.” 


UNDER WHICH KING? 


320 

“ Pray, pray, doD’t say intrude; say, rather, brighten. But 1 am 
still in the dark. Ida, you tell me, has developed a sort of 'penchant 
for some one here. Suelj'^you can not mean poor Robert. lie, alas! 
is alieady captured.” 

“1 do not allude to Robert,” replied IVIrs. Frankalmoign, with 
almost asperity. ‘‘ He is a dear, good fellow, but you know — not 
quite— don’t you see?” 

“Certainly.” 

“ Ko. Ida’s preference, and it has assumed a very positive 
form, is for Plantagenet.” 

“ I’m sure we all shall feel as glad as if it had been one of our 
own blood,” ejaculated, with warmth, the impulsive baronet. 
“ Planny is a noble fellow. 1 am proud of him.” 

“ Quite so,” smiled the lady. “ Then your aid, please. Planny 
is shy — 7 nauvaise lionte, you know. Wild horses could not induce 
him to speak to Ida, and Ida, of course, can not take the initiative, 
though they were once engaged. Tou, Sir Robert, alone can.” 

“ Oh, I’ll give him a hint of the most direct kind,” responded the 
baronet. “ ion may rely on that.” 

“ Thanks. But that is not the sum-total of my diplomatic mis- 
sion. Could you not pei*suade him to drop that dreadful ‘ Hodge ’ ?” 

“ Of course. Most objectionable. I’ve ofteied to adopt him, and 
give him our name. He must, he shall, accept my oRer. Helms 
been Marmyon all his life. Let him stick to the name. He is not 
the man to disgrace it.” 

“Yes,” acquiesced the crafty lady; “and one other request, 
please, then 1 will retire.” 

Sir Robert laughed good-humoredly. 

“1 approach this last topic with extreme diffidence,” said the 
maneuvering mamma. “ It is, in plain English, finance. Are you 
prepared to — ahem! — endow Planny as your adopted son?” 

“ He has an annuity — that is all.” 

“ Ho fortune to settle on a future wife?” 

“ None. But in this case there can be no necessity. Ida’s fort- 
une is more than ample.” 

“ Sir Robert, to be frank, 1 have to safeguard myself. 1 am not 
old. If Ida marries, and takes her fund out of the common stock — 
1 — ” 

“ Shall be a beggar,” cried a voice from behind the screen placed 
to keep the draught of the door from Sir Robert; and then, to jNIrs. 
Frankalmoign’s horror, Errol marched forward, and without offer- 
ing his hand confronted her. He had come do ivn from, London for 
that very purpose. 

Tlhere was a dead, a hideous pause, the wih’- lady’s dress indicat- 
ing her emotion, her blanched lips the terror of one brought to bay. 

“Suppose,” remarked Errol, coolly, “ before you try to jockey 
my father, you refund that £25,000 jou tricked me out of.” 

Sir Robert Marmyon rose, but be did not utter. 

“ Sir,” stammered the lady, “ you insutt .me. M}’’ solicitor shall 
answer this unfounded charge.” 

“ Quite unnecessary. 1 borrowed £50,000 on my reversion, under 
the supposition 1 was heir. Your solicitor, who is your relative and 
confederate, pretended that he required your name as surety to the 


UNDER WHICH KING? 321 

bond, and on that plea I consented to advance half the loan, the 
conditions being understood between us. I have since ascertained 
that you did not become surety, that you are not liable, and that 1 
am. Nay more, 1 have to secure the lender further, or to stand the 
racket of an action for false pretenses. Now, madam 1” 

“ What!” demanded Sir Robert, “ What is this?” 

But Mrs. Frankalmoign, with a stately bow, had disappeared. 
Her sole mainstay under such a fusillade of accusations was her 
manner, and that never deserted her. She swept out of the room 
in all the splendor of injured innocence. 

Then Errol sat down by his sire’s sidoi and made a plenary con- 
fession, at the close whereof the bell was rung, and a carriage 
ordered to take Mrs. Frankalmoign to the station. 

But before they left — box-packing in the case of ladies of fashion 
being a long business — Sir Robert called Plantagenet aside. 

” Planny,” he said, ” you love Ida and Ida loves you. But it i& 
fair to warn you that she hasn’t a sixpence, and that her mother is 
a barefaced swindler. All 1 can say is, that if you marry the girl 
I’ll increase your present allowance to a thousand a year. You had 
better, however, look before you leap. ’ ’ 

“ 1 dare neither look nor leap,” he replied. “ 1 am not in the 
running for Ida, and she knows it.” 

” Why not? What 1 affirm is absolute truth.” 

“ Possibly. But a thousand pounds would not keep the Frankal- 
moign menage going for a month, still less for a year.” 

“You are right there. Planny.” 

“ And 1 am justified in affirming that Ida must marry money, or 
else her mother will succumb, not merely to poverty, but disgrace.” 

‘‘i am aware of it. lean also tell you this — that even money 
will not save that woman if 1 hold up my little finger. Through 
your father— adopted father, if you will— you, Planny, are master 
of the situation. She is yours.” 

‘‘ Amen,” muimured the solemn voice of the big man. 


CHAPTER Lll. 

DYNAMITE. 

"When in the evening Robert returned to the Court, he found 
there an almost empty drawing-room. The Frankalmoigns were 
gone, and with them Plantagenet. Lady Marmyon had retired 
early to roost, pained beyond expression by the incident of the 
morning, and Sir Robert and Errol were chatting gloomily in the 
corner, in a sort of undertone. 

It was the first time since his return to England that he had en- 
countered Errol, and the greeting on either side was the reverse of 
fraternal. For this the baronet was prepared, and hence with his 
normal tact he led the conversation, thereby keeping the brothers 
from a verbal collision. At the moment he almost regretted the 
embargo he had laid on Robert to transfer his quarters from Shep- 
herd Williams’s cottage to the Court. Perhaps he might have ex- 
cused his absence had he anticipated Errol’s visit, which, as may be 
surmised, was, as a matter-of-fact, wholly unexpected. 

11 


322 UNDEIl WHICH KIIs-G? 

The tail of an evening spent on terms of such decided awkward- 
ness came to a natural termination early. Sir Robert suggested bed 
a good nohr before the usual roostine: time, and Errol, who was 
hideously bored, eagerly indorsed the notion. So with the custom- 
ary valediction the lather and sons separated for the night. 

It was midsummer — bright, beautiful, balmy. Night — tor all 
that the life-giving sun was absent for a few short hours ^seemed 
more livable than day itself in dreary, dark December, and as 
Robert leaned out of his oriel-window and listened (o the alternate 
music of the nightingale, and the distant bell of Shepherd Williams’s 
flock, he felt entranced bj'^ihe scene. 

He sat star-gazing, waking, dreaming, thinking thoughts that, 
like the weird harmonies of Beethoven’s grander sonatas, seemed to 
be impressions rather than ideas; for how long he never knew, for 
he forgot to consult his watch. His reverie must have lasted into 
the silent small hours, since nature herself seemed stilled to ex- 
quisite silence, and he remembered afterward that he might have 
remained where he was spell-bound all the livelong night, but tor 
something, a sort of indefinable shade, that in an instant came be- 
tween his soul and his trance. 

In short, he awoke to reality almost with a start, for, as he fan- 
cied, his ear caugnt the sound of a footfall on the grass below his 
window. 

It was now darkening, and as his eyes peered into the gloom 
nothing was apparent. Doubtless, he thought, one of the deer had 
strayed from the hftrd near the gray walls of the Court, and its 
tramp was audible. 

Then the footfall sounded again, and next his watch — as he sup- 
posed— began to tick with an unwonted noise. He had never before 
heard that admirable piece of mechanism thus attract his notice, 
and the singular “ tick-tick-tick ” worried him, and gave a sort of 
eerie, unpleasant, almost ghastly complexion to what had been a 
pleasurable niiTht-watch. He had hours ago extinguished his candle, 
in order the better to enjoy the glories of a midsummer night’s wak- 
ing dream, and now he almost felt sorry, though neither a nervous 
nor a superstitious man, at possessing no light. Hastily, therefore, 
retreating toward his bed, he flung ofi his coat, and taking the 
watch from his pocket placed it by iiis side on the table. 

It emitted no sound at all. 

Then he recollected that he had forgotten to wind it up on. the 
previous night at Shepherd Williams’s, and that it had been station- 
ary all day. And yet it had been ticking noisily — of that phenome- 
non his ears had been witness. That was strange, unaccountable, 
transcendental. In a positive mist of bewilderment he flung ofl; his 
clothes, said his prayers, and turned in between the sheets— to sleep 
off his impressions, if he could. 

That was not so easy, for the same ticking, though fainter, was 
still audible. He counted a hundred, and essayed to escape it, but 
no. His ears still beat to tuat tattoo; and it was not until he pulled 
the clothes over his head that it absolutely ceased, and sleep came as 
the sweet lenitive of a strange apprehensiveness, amounting— so he 
subsequently was wont to aver— to an unmistakable presentiment. 

And as he slept, so also slept trustfully and sweetly the other in- 


t;:j?der which kihc? 323 

mates of Marmyon Court. SSir Robert, to bury in temporary ob' 
livion the tioubles that seemed to cast a dark shadow over his de- 
clining years; Lady Marmyon, to forget her intense vexation at the 
discovery of her bosom-friend, Mrs. Frankalmoign’s, real char- 
acter; Errol, to drown his bitterness at the sight of his detested 
brother, whom lie regarded much as Esau may have viewed that 
plain man, dwelling in teiits, who supplanted him by stratagem; 
Hester Mazebrook, to see visions of “ company " quite beyond the 
extensive resources of the Court — her favorite nightmare; the foot- 
men to dream of the public-house of the future; and the maids of 
liveried lovers — the entire household, in fine, slept as other house- 
holds sleep, in quietness and confidence, fearing neither the burglar, 
nor the fire, nor the pestilence, and persuaded that all the world 
around their beds was peopled with honest friends. 

For once, however, their calculation was erroneous. Night’s lin- 
gering shades were already beginning to tiee before the hasty return 
of the glorious midsummer sun, when, in an instant, without one 
note of warning, a crash, as it were, of tlie archangel’s trump, awoke 
every sleeper with an electric shock, seismic in its intensity, while 
the roar of falling masonry revealed to each startled soul the aw'ful 
truth of a catastrophe having occurred, the extent whereof could 
not be guessed.' 

That tick- tick-tick!— was it, after all, the note of a watch that had 
not been wound up, or was it the fateful beat of an infernal ma- 
chine, timed only too accurately to deal destruction at a certain fixed 
minute with unerring punctuality? 

The deed had been done — done, too, without the cognizance of 
Errol, w^ho had flatly refused Dolopy’s request to meet Flaymar, 
Conolly and Fiayney, being at the moment much more concerned 
to arrange some sort of terms with Mr. Moseson, of Houndsditch. 
The deed was done, and the intended victim the man who had turned 
his back on that trio of rascality. 

The deed was done. A.nd in the dull gray of morning, ere yet 
the terrorized domestics and the awakened village could discover 
w’hat was the extent of the injury, theowper of that proud demesne 
lay amid senseless and wounded;, and his heir in a pitiable 

condition, one mass of contusions and scars, though happily with 
unbroken bones. 

Soon the sun came peeping over Fiesset Wood, and then the crowd 
of rustics were able to gauge what had happened. Nitro-glycerine 
had wrecked the wing of the mansion, wherein were sleeping Sir 
Robert and Lady Marmyon on the first floor, and over them on the 
^ second floor their elder son. Errol, whose room was in the further 
wing, escaped without a scratch. 

The damaged portion ot the building exhibited a chaotic appear-' 
ance. An immense fissure had dicholomized the gable end. There 
was a large cavity created in the wall, the dining-room on the 
grouivt-fioor was a wreck, and the state bedroom above simply 
choKed. It was the labor of two hours to extricate the unfortunate 
baronet; and wiien he and his wife, both bleeding and insensible, 
were borne to another chamber the bystanders took tliem for dead. 
Robert was extricated more easily. His appearance— he was stream- 
ing with blood from flesh wound* inflicted by splinters— was so 


Ul^DEIi WHICH KIHG? 


3U 

ghastly that the man who pulled him out of the wreckage imagined 
that he was seriously damaged. This, however, was not the case. 
The shock, as may be anticipated, had for the nonce shattered his 
nerves; but in the general chaos he had fared fortunately as com- 
pared with his father and mother. 

In the wild contusion that ensued Errol, for the first time in his 
life, displayed what may be termed a moral quality. In a trice he 
realized what had happened, and with speed was to the fore, issuing 
orders and assuming the functions of controller-general. By his 
energy and head-piece the sufierers were extricated with all possible 
expedition, while with prompitude the telegraph-wires communi- 
cated to headquarters the outrage, and gave them the earliest possi- 
ble opportunity for detecting its perpetrators. 

That, however — to anticipate— was no easy task. The abolition 
of turnpikes, though a boon to travelers, renders the detection of 
crime in the rural districts doubly difficult. Indeed, the only clew 
obtainable was from an old man, who had seen a dog-cart containing 
two men driving toward Marmyon between the hours of midnight 
and 1 A.M. That was literally all. 

Captain Dolopy might have thrown some light on the outrage — 
albeit not concerned in it— but he did not care to mix his nauie with 
any such villainy. Besides which, he had a wholesome horror of 
Hibernian vendetta, and he entertained a shrewd notion that were 
he to turn informer his skin might not remain intact tor a prolonged 
period. 

And so, struck down by an unseen hand, the proud baronet lay 
lingering. By a strange coincidence they placed him in that very 
room, and on that very bed, where of yore Hodge, the laborer’s 
wife, had lain to suckle her own son, and to laugh in her sleeve at 
the deception. There tor weeks the poor gentleman remained, some- 
times semi-conscious, sometimes with a lucid interval, which he 
spent less in attending to the ministrations of Mr. Orphrey than in 
moaning over the injury intlieted on Marmyon Court. Till then 
nobody knew how completely his whole soul was wrapped up in this 
mansion, the center-point of his life-long piide, and now its col- 
lapse, though it was but partial, added a sting to the bitterness of 
death. 

For he did not survive the blow, nor w^as his passage hence quite 
as he had mentally depicted it. Ho wife, no fond children, sur- 
rounded his death-bed. Errol came to him, but he cared little for 
his presence. Robert he barely recognized. His wife was delirious, 
and for the nonce in danger, albeit she eventually recovered. Once, 
and once only, he begged Hester Mazebrook, his kind and loving ^ 
nurse, to send for Plantagenet, and when that fine fellow came to 
his bedside he warmed to something like earnestness. But in the 
main he was indifferent, and his tears, which were incessant, flowed 
entirely for Marmyon Court. Like certain animals to whom home 
is more than their species, his longest, last, and truest love was for 
the Court, and when that edifice of his affection was shorn of its 
grace and beauty — and indeed reduced in part to a mere ruin — he 
felt that it was high time its feudal lord should go. 

“ Tell them,” were his last injunctions, “ to write on my tomb, 
iSic transit gloria niundV' 


325 


rXDER WHTf'TT KIXG? 

y What’s that you say, Sir Robert?” sobbed Hester. 

“ £r— ah, Iwas for} 2 :ettin 2 ^. Get a sheet of paper and a pen. Now, 
write precisely as 1 dictate.” And he positively spelled the words, 
letter by letter. You may see them now, if you care to undertake a 
pilgrimage so far, at the base of the recumbent effigy, erected in his 
honor by his widow, and sculptured in white marble by Pheidias, 
R. A., in the chancel of Marmyon Church. 


CHAPTER Llll. 

TWO LOVES AND A TALK. 

Love was a good friend to Plantagenet, for had he not been 
wafted away from Marmyon Court on her wings he must infallibly 
have suffered in limb if not in life by the explosion, since the cham- n 
ber allotted to him — his old room hallowed by the associations of a 
lifetime— was next to that of the baronet and his wife. Neverthe- 
less, the course of that delicious stream did not at first flow quite 
smoothly: in fact, after leaving the Court with Mrs. Frankalmoign 
and Ida, he enjoyed the luxury of a maumis quart d'heure. 

Until they reached the railway-station little was said. Mrs. 
Frankalmoign’s cheeks were vulgarly red, her eyes were flashing 
fiercely, and her mouth— once universally admired — was pursed up. 
But her tongue was quiet. She was in truth too outraged to utter. 

Eve, if the mother of silvern speech, cannot be said to have 
originated golden silence. Eve out of temper, and more particularly 
Eve when totally in the wrong, is gifted commonly with rhetorical 
powers of the irrepressible variety. Ifence, as soon as Mrs. Frankal- 
moign found herself actually anchored in a railway-carriage with 
the train in motion and nobody within ear-shot except her daughter 
and Plantagenet, she at once, with a preliminary shriek, let off 
steam. 

“ 1 wonder,” she gasped, hysterically, “ that you two people can 
sit there and see me so basely insulted.” 

” Well, mother,” pleaded Ida, rather scornfully, “what would 
you have us do? We can’t very well stand.” 

“Ugh!” flounced the elder lady, ‘‘just like your heartlessness. 
The idea of that man, Errol, daring to accuse me in that way. Why, 
Plantagenet, if you were a man you would have strangled the 
fellow.” 

“ You forget,” replied Plantagenet, demurely, ‘‘ 1 was not pres- 
ent,” 

” An excuse, a mere excuse. And you, Ida, you never took your 
mother’s part. You never — ” 

‘‘Made a goose of myself, mother. Of course 1 didn’t. 1 told 
you from the first that no good would come of all your financial 
maneuvering, and now you see 1 was right. Don’t blame me, or 
any one else but yourself.” 

‘‘ Well,” shrieked Mrs. Frankalmoign, ‘‘ and suppose, girl, your 
mother is to blame? Is that any reason why I, a lady, should be 
charged with swindling? Is that any reason, please, why my 
daughter should so far fail in her duty as never to utter a w'ord on 
my behalf? Is that any reason why the man who—” 


32G UXDEK WHICH KING? 

“If you pU'aao, motlier, interposed Ida, rocldeuing, “remember 
w hat is due to me, even if you choose to forget what is due to your- 
self.” 

“Faugh! Don’t dictate to me. 1 speak. 1 be heard, 
too. 1 repeat, is that any reason why the man who aspires to—” 

“ >lother, you shall restrain yourself.” 

“ Ida, 1 can’t, and 1 won’t, tliat man there is your suitor, and 
as such he ought to have taken my part. ” 

There was a coarseness in this, rather more suggestive of the rela- 
tive of Lawyer Hubble than of a long intimacy with Belgravian 
drawing-rooms. It caused Ida to hide her face with her hands in 
horror. 

“ 1 don’t know,” after a pause, a painful pause, rejoined Planta- 
genet, in a low bass voice — “ 1 don’t know, Mrs. Frankalmoign, 
why you select me as an object of animadversion, or why you should 
connect 3'our daughter’s name with mine. But as 1 feel, in conse- 
quence, challenged to speak, 1 confess that my sentiments are clearly 
an open secret, and that if they should be ” — glancing at Ida, who 
had dropped her hands on her lap — “ reciprocated, 1 should indeed 
be a proud man.” 

It was Ida’s turn to look at him, and her look seemed to say far 
more than words. But she simply remarked, with maidenly reserve, 
“ Whatever 1 think, or whatever 1 may feel, 1 don’t intend to talk 
about it now.’’ 

“ 1 can wait,” smiled Plantagenet. “ 1 have waited. Heaven 
knows, patiently and faithfulhL” 

“ You have,” whispered Ida, ;vlmost inaudibljL 
“But I can tell you this,” said Plantagenet, addressing himself 
quietly to the elder lady, “ that if events turn out as 1 hope, you 
need not alarm yourself concerning Jhirrol.” 

“ 1 don’t,” snapped that lady. “ What can Errol do?” 

“ Ah! there you pose me. I can’t tell you, but 1 suspect tlie cards 
in his hand might be awkward. You must know better than 1.” 

“ lie might sue me.” 

“ Is* that all— quite all?” 

“ I’m sure 1 can’t-say. All I know is,” bursting into a flood of 
tears, “ that you’re all in league against me. It’s abominable.” 

“Upon my honor, mother,” cried Ida, “that is quite too bad, 
considering that Plantagenet has just told you in so many words 
that his influence will hold you harmless. * Eeally, under the cir- 
cumstances. jmu might be a trifle more gracious.” 'JBut Ibis remon- 
strance did not appease, though it certainly succeeded in quieting, 
Mrs. hrankalmoign, who, after a prolonged fit of sobbing, Applied 
her visage diligently to her vinaigrette and tried to compose her 
features. 

And so in enforced silence they sat gazing out of the windows im- 
til at last Victoria was reached, and Plantagenet hurried ofl: to dis- 
cover some sort of vehicle wherein to convey the ladies to Berkeley 
Street. ' 

He was absent some some five minutes, There was a race meet- 
ing on, and the station happened to be overcrowded with a type of 
Briton whose manners and morals might be mended with advantage 
to society. Accidentally or on purpose Ida, as being the loveliest 


TJNDETl WHICH KIHG? 327 

object on the platform, found herself repeatedly, and as she fancied 
intrusively, jostled, so she suggested an immediate flight in the 
direction of the public apartment supposed to be sacred to ladies, 
albeit the quality of the ladyhood infesting it chanCes to be more 
often than not equivocal. 

They had contrived by a circuitous path almost to reach that 
haven of refuge when a biggish book-maker, with a purple hat and 
much liquor on board, pushed his vinous self between them, and 
thereby forcibly parted them. Ida at once resolutely, but with 
difficulty, dodged round the man, and fled in the direction of the 
waiting-room, where she landed safely. Her mother being less light 
of fool was about to follow, when she found herself confronted by 
no less a personage than Horace St. Vincent, who also-:— after the 
fashion of the crowd — seemed to havg been paying some attention 
to the champagne, for his eyes were sparkling, his gait unsteady. 

But however top-heavy this charming gentleman might be, and 
however perplexing his consonants might for the nonce seem to his 
lips, tongue, and teeth, his manner never deserted him. 

“ So ch — charmed to see Mrs. Fr — almoy,” he hiccoughed. “ Can 
1 do sh— shushomethinng or other? Get cab?” 

“Ho, thank 5^011,” replied the bewildered lady. “ I’m looking 
for Ida. Where in the woild can she have got to?” 

” Ida losht? You dolt say Ida losht! Musht find her shome- 
where! P’raps she’s gone, put hat on, bonnet on, in she way ’room?” 
And, his head filled with the ide'h that Ida might have betaken her- 
self to that delightful gynceceum, Horace broke away from Mrs. 
Frankalmoign, staggered to the door of the lady’s retiring-roorn, 
and without regarding the solemn monition, ” For ladies only,” 
heaved through it, and charged incontinently into the center of a 
bevy of — well, not exactly beauties. 

His eye being unsteady, and his perpendicular likewise, he bal- 
anced himself against the" wail and surveyed the crowd of indignant 
femininity. 

- ” Why, there sh’is!” he exclaimed, suddenly, and then lurching 
across the room, greeted Ida. 

‘‘ iMr. St. Vincent,” rejoined the young lady, firmly, ” oblige me 
by retiring. I will speak to you outside.” 

‘‘Allri’. Beg par— par’ou. Ho ’fence. Shertnly.” 

Whereupon as Hors^ce, suddenly, for all his intipsification, realiz- 
ing the incongruity of this proceeding, was about to withdraw, in a 
trice a gloved hand slapped his shoulder smartly, and a voice of the 
sort to send a shudder through Ida, vociferated, ‘‘ Why, ’Oris, h’ole 
man, wot h’ls yer up to in the ladies’ room?” 

It was only Miss Charlemagne of the Ambiguity ballet. That 
was all. She had been to the races, like the res-t of the ?rorld; and 
after the best part of an hour in the train, had felt it expedient to 
add to her charms one more layer of hare’s-foot. 

As Horace turned toward the girl with a stupid, sleep}’’ expression, 
Ida, her fine features betraying a mixture of horror and contempt, 
slipped past him, and in a trice met Plantagenet and accepted h:» 
arm. Then the pair roamed off in search of Mrs. Frankalmoign, 
•who, with feminine logic, had never so much as dreamed that her 


328 UiSTDER Winril kixg? 

daughter could have found the ladies’ room, and had been in conse- 
quence breathlessly traversing the station in search ot hei. 

As they took their seats in the clarence, which Planlagenet had 
by dint ot colossal energy secured for them, and were moving off, 
Ida saw something that caused her to put her head out of the win- 
dow and look back. 

The tableau consisted of Horace St. Vincent, who was being re- 
moved, struggling, by a brace of majestic policemen, while a lud- 
dled girl was vainly endeavoring to persuade them to release him, 
and the foozled fellow himself not to resist; and soon as the car- 
riage Avas turning the corner of the Grosvenor Hotel, her eye caught 
sight of the man she had once deemed the acme ot breeding and 
esprit landed on the pavement, while Miss Charlemagne, purse in 
hand, was essaying to bribe the officers ot the law. 

That W'as enough. Ida, nauseated by that sorry spectacle, glanced 
timidly at the big, honest fellow, her ins-d-'nis, and realized tor the 
first time, perhaps, the superiority of manhood over effeminacy, ot 
truth and tenderness over flippant falsity. Then and there her die 
was cast, and she felt in her inmost soul that it was cast wdsely and 
well. 

Plantagenet dined wilh them in the evening, and afterward for- 
mally proposed and was accepted, without the shade of arriere 
pensee. Ida was his; not, perhaps, madly or rapturously; not with 
the wild abandon wherewith she would have surrendered her life in 
blind confidence to Horace St. Vincent; but with all sincerity. 

“ You must remember,” he said, lor he w’ould not have her take 
him, except for exactly what he was Avortii— “ you must remember 
that 1 am plebeian. My father was an agricultural laborer; my 
mother for years kept a pothouse. 1 am of the earth, earthy. My 
hands bear witness to my origin, so do my feet, so do my muscles. 
1 am no gentleman by right, only by a'sort ot veneer, and 1 suppose 
my mind was made to correspond. There’s not much of the poet, 
or artist, or a?sthete about me. At best 1 am only an athlete and 
sportsman. Don’t you think,” with a smile, “you’re going to 
make a mistake?” 

“ Well,” laughed Ida, “ everybody knows all about you, but few, 
if any, all about us. Listen, and I think you will haVe to confess 
that it’s not a case of twm for me and one for you, but very much of 
two apiece. A man named Smith, wdio drove the fast coach from 
London lo Birmingham, long before the railways, had one wet day 
for his box-seat a young widow. Her name was Frankalmoign, or 
rather 1 should say was supposed by a polite fiction so to be, for it 
is more than dubious wdiether she was married to Mr. Frankal- 
moign, of Dukesbury. 1 am afraid, indeed, that their relations 
were not altogether as matrimonial as one might wish. Anyhow, 
he had died recently and left a large fortune to this lady who was 
the box-seat on that memorable occasion. Well, the story goes that 
this hypothetical widow and coachee Smith made love along the 
road, and married in haste. Smith in consequence became Frankal- 
moign— he had no earthly business to make himself anything of the 
Kind— and my father was the only child ot the marriage. So that, 
as you perceive, all the talk about our being an old family is simply 
balderdash. Our real name is Smith, and our origin the coach-box; 


CNDER WlllCli KTXG? 


329 


while, oddly enough, mother, for curiositv's sake, was making 
some inquiries as to who Smith was, in consequence of an adveitise- 
ment concerning some unclaimed property, she discovered ’that 
coachee’s papa kept the ‘ Spotted Dog,’ or some such vile hole in 
Birmingham itself, and that his brother was hanged tor sheep-steal- 
ing. Jn fact, it’s my humble conviction that the less closely pedi- 
grees are scrutinized the prettier they look.” 

‘‘ But,” rejoined Plautagenet, ” your mother is a lady.” - 

“My mother,” replied Ida, “was at starting a dressmaker in 
Regent Street. My father, Mr. Coventry Frankalmoign, fell in love 
with her, educated her after marriage, and being himself a man of 
polish, having gone through the mill of Eton and Oxford, contrived 
to get her into society. He started, her nephew, a wretched animal 
of the name of Hubble, as a lawyer, and—-” 

“ Ah!” ejaculated Plantagenet, “ 1 see it all now, and, to be can- 
did, I’m not sorry we meet on the same sort of level.” 

“ Yes,” she pleaded, coaxingly; “ but you know, things being as 
they are, and the world having such a very strong predilection for 
humbug, 1 fancy it would be policy tor you, and certainly more 
pleasant for me, to stick to the good name of Marmyon. It might 
be more honest for Miss Smith to marry Mr. Hodge, but, don’t you 
know, that sort of honesty is — ahem! — rather out ot place. Besides 
which, surely it is truer tonality for pretty people to be known by 
pretty names than ugly ones. One cannot imagine the polio Bel- 
vedere as Bob Brown, or the Venus di Medici under the guise of 
Sarah Ann. Am 1 right?” 

“ That,” laughed Plantagenet, “is an argument which carries 
conviction. Besides, candidly, 1 don’t mind being Marmyon, and 1 
somehow feel all overish, it anyone flings Hodge "at nn^ head, it’s 
snobbishness, 1 own, ot the most contemptible sort, "but if great 
minds are not tree from foibles, why should not little ones be per- 
mitted them?” 

“ Anyhow,” chimed in Ida, “ as Sir Robert has virtually adopted 
you, you have a far better title to use the name of Marmyon than 
ever our people had to that ot Frankalmoign. Our nomenclature 
was a fraud— an impudent deception, and the wonder to me is that 
we were not publicly denounced by the real genuine Frankal- 
moigns, who are, I am told, a family of antiquity, though, as often 
happens, hideously poor. Whereas, so far as you are concerned, all 
is fair and square.” 

“After all,” replied Plantagenet, “what does it matter? You 
are yourself; and 1 am myself. Plaster either of us with the big- 
gest polysyllable in the peerage, or the ugliest monosyllable to be 
found on the roll of the nearest workhouse, and we shall not be 
altered in body or soul one little bit. It makes, of course, immense 
difference to our happiness whether we are poor or — ” 

“ Ah!” shuddered Ida, “ there you strike a tender chord. It was 
downright wicked ot my mother to make away with my money.” 

“ 1 am not sorry,” rejoined Plantagenet, proudl 3 ^ 

“ Why not? Are 3^011 insane?” 

“ On the contrary, plain and practical, though prejudiced. 1 
don’t like dirty money. I don’t believe in true happiness resulting 
from coin amassed dishonorably. Now, from what you tell me. 


I'JSTDER WHICH KIXG? 


330 

this fortune, bequeathed by old Frankalmoign to the woman who 
aflervvaid became Smith, your grandmother, was — to put it bluntly 
— the wages of iniquity. Faugh! I’m glad the vile stufl; does not 
smirch your fingers or mine. 1 can wait and hope.” 

Ida cast her eyes down. “ "i'es,” she faltered,.” your nature, your 
aims, are loftier than mine. 1 have much to learn from you.” 

‘‘ And 1 from you— far more. Why has the world so far pro- 
gressed? Because every male child born is his father’s duplicate, 
only purified and refined in part by his mother. Moreover, every 
man who marries his love undergoes, 1 am persuaded, a second re- 
fining process; and thus, before the grave closes the scene, may be 
— ought to be — less of a brute, and fitter for a higher existence.” 

” And yet you say you are not a poet?” 

“Nor am 1, unless to collate the phenomena of existence be 
poetry. ” 

” But,’' she pleaded, ‘‘ it is poetry to believe in women.” 

“Yes,” he responded, earnestly, ” it is poetry— immortal poetry 
—to believe m you 

That was all. They were mated, this big he and little she, though 
not altogether on Dresden China lines, since Watteau would never 
have paired six foot four with five foot five, and both' in the pict- 
ures and in the fictile art they don’t take account of such an abstract 
idea as the human heart. Altra, for all that our he and she were 
very happy — and who cares to be more? 


EPILOGUE. 

Thus gravitates toward its conclusion our' narrative of the forces 
that influence life— the life of this epoch.. Walk down Piccadilly 
any fine morning and you will meet, 1 dare wager, between lunch 
and dinner, during the season. Sir Kobert and Lady Marmyon, Mrs. 
and Ida Frankalmoign, Errol, PI antagenet, Horace St. Yincent, 
Captain Dolopy, the Skrumpelby family — or their duplicates. Fur- 
ther east you will encounter Hubble, Ferretman, Flaymar, Conolly, 
or their fac-similes. Down in the shires, by diligent search, 3’'oii 
may discover Fathers Orphrey and L'lsle, the Hodge family. Widow 
Gipps, Farmer Rodd, Robert, the heir. Shepherd Williams, his wife 
and daughter, and honest Hester jVlazebrook. 1 know them all, or 
have known them in my time, as also somewhat of their secret 
thoughts, and much of their works and ways. 

But the reader will say, “You are omitting your heroine — that 
vast tract of English soil, conqrrered and fertilized b}’ English in- 
dustry — the broad acres of Marmyon!” , 

Patience. We are coming to her preseritly. Her fate, like that of 
every other estate, is bound up in the character and motives of her 
owner. Under Sir Robert Marmyon she feasted the rich but starved 
the poor. She filled with good things those who needed them not, 
and sent the hungry emptj’- away. Now she is about to awaken to 
a sense of moral responsibility, for her new owner is one who has 
himself fasted and toiled, and Ills heart is with those who earn what 
they eat. 

But 1 am anticipating. Let us return once more to the narrative, 


UXDER WHICH KTIsG? 331 

and tell in tlie fewest words how it fared with tboso human beinas 
whose lives and fortunes we have been following through these long 
columns of print. 

When Sir Robert, with the requisite and necessai^^pomp, was laid 
in the family vault, the question of heirship came positively under 
the eye of the gentlemen of the long robe. Robert— under advice — 
took possession, but a special act of Parliament was recommended 
in order to secure his heirs, should he have any. It w'as pointed out 
that, inasmuch as there was still some legal inceititude as to the 
rightful heir under the entail, some such contingency as this might 
happen: Plantagenet might die childless, and then Errol might claim 
as his heir-at-law on the affirmation that he, and not Robert, had 
been really Sir Robert’s elder son. To guard against this an act was 
prepared on Plantagenet’s petition, and in it, at Robert’s request, a 
clause was inserted, entitling the former to a certain positive interest 
in (he estate for his own and his wife’s life, the said interest repre- 
senting exactly one-third of the existing income. 

This arrangement, Mrs. Frankalmoign having vanished perma- 
nently to Mentone, enabled Plantagenet to marry Ida, though not to 
live en prince, a role for which he had now but small preference, 
and which she for his sake was willing to forego. They settled 
down quietly at Putney, a locality selected in order to enable the 
bi^ Benedick to pursue his original avocation of amateur oai*sman. 

Lady Marmj^on, as a widow on a not very extensive income, 7.e- 
tired to Brighton. She became the center of one of those creme de 
la creme sets whose pride happens to be in excess of their intelli- 
gence. Mr. Orphrey visits her occasionally, but she has latterly 
shown a decided preference for the Roman communion; antiquity, 
in her ladyship’s eye^ being preferable to — shall 1 call it? — ortho- 
doxy, and the older Onurch commanding especial reverence as being 
associated in this country with such splendid historic families as the 
Howards, Talbots, Cliffords, Stonors, etidqenm omne. She is very 
happy in her own way, and never alludes to her late husband, with 
whom latterly she had no affinity whatsoever. 

Errol, in plain English, sponges on his mother. He and his elder 
brother being practically strangers, and his own pecuniary position' 
being equivocal in the extreme — Moseson only consenting to hold 
his nand in consideration of a douceur of £10,000: every penny that 
remained of the loan — he finds it necessary to plunder where lie can, 
and his mother’s is the only available sac he has to pillage. She has 
made him her heir, so that in time he will be a poor patrician instead 
of a patrician pauper. 

Messrs. FI aymar, Conolly, and Frayney, shortly after the explo- 
sion, deemed it advisable to breath the freer atmosphere of the United 
States. Errol suspected the gang and put the police on their trail — ■ 
wdth no result, as has been already stated. It was the information 
conveyed to them by an Irish confederate in (be Force, that they 
might be shortly wanted, which caused their immediate emigration, 
and happily they have not yet returned to infest our harmless island, 
or to regenerate our depraved race by a baptism of nitro-glycerine, 

Horace St. Vincent fell on his legs. By dint of menaces he ex- 
tracted a cool hundred out of Mr. Hubble, and on that rather slen- 
der basis betook himself to Saratoga Springs as an English noble- 


332 UXDER WTITCH TaXG? 

man. His manners being quite up to that level, and his acquaint- 
ance with society justifying his role, he positively married dollars, 
and ot course still passes in Manhattan as “ niy lord,” England be- 
ing too warm fpr his temperament. His quondam confederate, the 
promoting Dolopy, after the manner of his kind, alternates between 
a flush of ready money and extreme indigence. About once in every 
three years he avails himself of the Bankruptcy Court, and his ani- 
mal spirits are always at the highest after a good whitewash.^ It is 
his rooted conviction that he will attain a Vanderbiltian eminence 
within the next few weeks, and on that illusion his soul pastures, 
as a donkey on prospective tui nips which no amount of running will 
bring an inch nearer his nose. 

And now to touch briefly on the after-career of Robert, tlie heir 
no longer, but Sir Robert Marmyon, of Marm^mn Court, 

When he actually found himself master of the lands on which he 
had worked for wage, he sat down quietly and reckoned up his 
obligations. They were as follows: 

First, to Polly Williams. He must make her his wife, settle upon 
her and her possible oftspring all that was needful, and further pro- 
vide for her kith and kin. That, of course, de rlgneur 

Secondly, he owed something to Plantagenet. This debt he paid, 
and in the form already described. 

Thirdly, he felt it right to ofier Lady Marmyon the use ot the 
Court for her life, an oiler which was rather coldly declined. 

Fourthly, he opined, and in this he was supported by Polly, that 
he ought in some measure to provide for Belinda Hodge. She had 
been, nominally, his sister, and perhaps his friend. Inasmuch as 
lie had mentally resolved to convert the public-house from a' poison- 
shop into a wholesome club for the village, he was compelled to 
make her an offer to resign her position as ITebe. The offer he did 
make must have been liberal, for it was accepted gladly and thank- 
fully. 

Fifthly, for Widow Gipps he was eager and anxious to find a 
comfortable and luxurious home, but his philanthropic ambition 
was rendered unnecessary, the poor widow being suddenly provided 
even better quarters in that larger and longer home where the wicked 
cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. 

Lastly, there was the parish, i.e., the people, A year ago, if he 
had inherited then, and with the idesis he then held as articles of 
belief, he would have simply cut up the estate into so many portions, 
and divided them equally among the laboring-men. Experience, 
practical and religious, had toned down that idea, while it had ele- 
vated his own appreciation of the responsibility of ownership. But, 
while he had ceased to be a Communist, he was none the less a Lib- 
eral of Liberals. Every cottage on the estate 'was enlarged and im< 
proved with such additions as piggeries and cow-sheds. Then at a 
nominal rent he apportioned to each man twelve clear acres of good 
land, grass or arable, according to preference, tor his own tillage 
after hours. He followed, in "short, the outlines of Mr. Stubbs’s 
scheme — but he went further. He gave every one of the men a fair 
start, either with stock or seeds, or manures and straw. Thus in 
twelve months he had turned Marmy^on village from one of the sad- 
dest to the very happiest and most prosperous in the shire. The 


UJq'DER WHICH KIKG? 333 

farmei'S growled at first; they must have their little growl; the 
more so because the new squire objected to laborers being turned 
adrift at the caprice of their employers, and insisted on an honest 
workman retaining his employ so long as he did his duly. But the 
friction wore off by degrees, and when the farmers found out that' 
well-fed, prosperous laboiersmake the best workmen, they ceased to 
grumble and began to praise. 

Then, having married bis wife, and settled the affairs of Mar- 
myon, the young and earnest thinker reverted to the project which 
had been the ambition of his more serious and solemn moments. 
Father LTsle at his request came to Marmyon once again, and he 
consulted that conscientious priest as to his future. 

“You owe a duty to your flock here,” said the father. 

“ That is so,” replied the young man, “ but it is paid. The parish 
is contented. There is no'more poverty, nor shall there ever be so 
long as I’m master. hJo more workhouse for poor, weary souls, 
who have labored all their lives on a pittance, to be handled thus 
cruelly at the last! I have already extricated hall a dozen Marmyon 
folk from that home of bondage, and they are among us again, treed 
and rejoicing. In brief, my work here is completed. It was, in the 
main, simply organization; and with a very little supervision on my 
part the machine will work automatically.” 

“ And you still crave tor higher, holier, more arduous labor?” 

“ As a matter of obligation. 1 have vowed my vows, and to break 
them would involve perfidy.” 

“ You mean rather that you have formed certain resolves on a 
sick-bed, with the angel of death hard by. Well, friend, and it it be 
so that those resolutions are as strong in health as they were in sick- 
ness, that is all the more to your honor, and it fills me with hope that 
you may have a vocation. But— pardon— it is easy to say go; hard 
logo.” 

“ 1 don’t understand.” 

“ Simply this.f If you wish to become a priest you must study 
long and deeply. Hitherto, although 1 grant you have thought 
much, you have read little. Kow, for a man of action and energy 
to commence late in life, a course of severe mental discipline in- 
volves an amount of perseverance which would rightly appall even 
the most resolute disposition. Are you equal to it?” 

“ lou may try me.” f 

“Of course. But, then, there is your wufe. She, 1 am sure, 
would wish to live at the Court and pfay Lady Bountiful.” 

“My wife. Father L’lsle, has a strong element of common-sense 
in her composition. She knows that she is no lady, just as 1 know 
that I am no gentleman. We both in this place occupy a false posi- 
tion. My son, if 1 have one, may be fitted by educatmn to act the 
baronet. I am not, neither do 1 care for the part. The men here 
won’t treat me as an equal, albeit 1 have told them that I wish it. 
As for the centry, they meet me with an air of condescending pat- 
ronage. Now, 1 don’t want to be toadied; and I don’t want to be 
patronized. My object in life is, 1 hope, a higher one. Am I right?” 

“Yea,” replied Father L’lsle, “ you are.” 

“ And therefore—” 

“You will have to place yourself under a friend of mine— a priest 


334 


ris'U.EIi WlilCJl KIJS’G? 


—for a course of study which may last over three, tour, or more 
years. Iheu we shall find work for your hand to do; for God 
knows that in this misnamed Christian land the harvest is plenteous. ” 
That is all. With Robert, his hand once more on the plow, 
though not the plow of the old days, when he drew his Saturday 
night’s wage from h'armer Rodd, we leave Marmyon Court and 
Marmyon village. Our tale is a tale that is told, a tale ot faith and 
unfaith, truth and falsehood, riches and poverty, honesty' and 
duplicity, frivolity and serious purpose, loryism and Socialism, 
heart and heartlessness. These are now, as they have ever been, 
and will ever be, in little Marmyon or the large world, whatsoever 
king shall reign, be he Plantagenet or be he Hodge. 


THE END. 


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■ III 

ANTHONY TROLLOPE’S WORKS. 

12 The American Senator 

d99 The Lady of Launay ^ 

630 Sir Harry Hotspur of 

631 John Caldigate 

601 Cousin Henry 

768 The Duke’s Children 

870 An Eye for an Eye jj' 

910 Dr. Wortle’s School 

944 Miss Mackenzie 

1047 Ayala’s Angel 

1090 Barchester Towers 

1201 Phineas Finn. First half . ^ 

1201 Phineas Finn. Second half ^ 

1206 Doctor Thorne. First half 

1206 Doctor Thorne. Second half 

1217 Lady Anna 

1255 The Fixed Period ; A' i * "o: * ' in 

1283 Why Frau Frohmann Raised Her Prices, and Other Stones W 

1292 Marion Fay u : ^ 

1306 The Struggles of Brown, Jones & Robinson 

1318 OrleyFarm. First half 

1318 Orley Farm. Second half 

1348 The Belton Estate - 

1419 Kept in the Dark 

1436 The Kellys and Tlic O Kellys 20 

1450 The Two ileroines of Plumplinglon - 10 

1455 The Macdermots of Ballycloran 20 

1473 Castle Richmond 20 

i486 Phineas Redux. First half 20 

1486 Phineas Redux. Second half 20 

1494 The Vicar of Bullhampton 20 

1511 Not If I Know It • 

1551 Is He Popenjoy? ^0 

1559 The Small House at Allington. First half 20 

1559 The Small House at Allington. Second half 20 

1567 The Last Chronicle of Barset. First half 20 

1567 The Last Chronicle of Barset. Second half 20 

1634 The Way We Live Now. First half 20 

1634 The Way We Live Now. Second half 20 

J656 Mr. Scarborough’s Family 

JULES VERNE’S WORKS. 

5 The Black-Indies 

16 The English at the North Pole -lO 

43 Hector Servadac ; • 

67 The Castaways; or, A Voyage Round the World — South 

America • • 

60 The Castaways; or, A Voyage Round the Woild — Australia 10 
84 The Castaways; or, A Voyage Round the World— New 

Zealand..,.,... 10 




I 

MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 

THE SEASIDE LIBEAEY.-POOKET EDITION. 

[continued from fourth page.] 


NO. PRICE. 

25.5 The ]Mystery. By Mrs. Henry Wood. 15 

256 Mr. Smith; A Part of His Life. Bj' 

L. B. Walford 15 

2.57 Beyond Recall. By Adeline Sergeant 10 

2.58 Cousins. By L. B. Walford 20 

250 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. A Sequel 


to “ The Count of Monte-Cristo,” 

By Alexander Dumas 10 

200 Proper Pride. By B. M. Croker 10 

261 A Fair Maid. By F. W. Robinson 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. Part I. 

By Alexander Dumas 20 

262 The Count of Monte Cristo. Part II. 

By Alexander Dumas 20 

263 Anishmaelite. By Miss M. E. Braddon 15 

201 Pi^douche, A French Detective. By 

Fortune Du Boisgobey 10 

205 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Af- 
fairs and Other Adventures. By 

William Black 15 

266 The AVater-Babies. A Fa^iry 'J’ale for 
a Land-Baby. By the Rev. Charles 

Kingsley 10 

207 Laurel A^ane; or. The Girls’ Con- 
spiracy. By Mrs. Alex. McATeigh 

Miller 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or. The Miser's 
Treasure. By Mrs. Alex. McA’^eigh 

Miller ’. 20 

209 Lancaster's Choice. By Mrs. Alex. 

McA^eigh Miller 20 

270 The AA'andering Jew. Parti. By Eu- 
gene Sue 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part II. By 

Euigene Sue 20 

271 The My.steries of Paris. Part I. By 

Eugene Sue 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. By 

Eugene Sue 20 


272 The Little Savage. Captain IMarryat 10 

273 Love and Mirage ; or. The AVaiting on 

an Island. By M. Betham Edwards 10 
271 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, Prin- 
cess of Great Britain and Ireland. 
Biographical Sketch and Letters. .. 10 

275 The Three Brides. Charlotte M. Yonge 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses. By Flor- 


ence Marryat (Mrs. Francis Lean) . . lO 

277 The Surgeon's Daughters. By Mrs. 

Henry Wood. A Man of His AVord. 

By AV. E. Norris 10 

278 For Life and Love. By Alison 10 

279 Little Goldie. Mrs. Sumner Hayden 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of Society. 

By Mrs. I'orrester 10 

281 The Squire’s Legacy. By Diary Cecil 

Hay .' 15 

282 Donal Grant. By George DIacDonald 15 
^3 The Sin of a Lifetime. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne ” 10 

281 Doris. By “ The Duchess 10 

^5 The Gambler’s AVife 20 


[continued on last 


NO. price. 

286 The Iron Hand. By F. Warden 20 

287 At War AVith Herself. By the author 

of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight. By the au- 

thor of “ Dora Thorne ” 10 

289 John Bull's Neighbor in Her True 

Light. By a “ Brutal Saxon ” 10 

290 Nora’s Love Test. By Dlar}^ Cecil Hay 20 

291 Love’s AA’arfare. By the author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

292 A Golden Heart. By the author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

2.94 Hilda. By the author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 10 

295 A AA’oman’s AA'ar. By the author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 r 

296 A Rose in Thoins. By the author 

of “Dora Thorne” 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly. By the author of 

“ Dora Thorne ” 10 

298 Dlitchelhurst Place. By DIargaret 

Veley 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride from 

the Sea. By the author of “Dora 
Thorne ” 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of Love. 

By the author of “ Dora Thorne ”, . . 10 

301 Dark Days. By Hugh Conwa3' 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest. By Hugh 

Conwa.y 10 

303 Ingledew House, and DIore Bitter than 

Death. By the author of “Dora 
Thorne” 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net. By the author cf 

“Dora Thorne ” 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Ladj^ Gwendo- 

line’s Dream. B3' the author of 
“Dora Thorne” 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for a Day. 

By the author of “ Dora Thorne ’' . . 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like No Other Love. 

By the author of “Dora Thorne ”.. 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20?" 

309 The Pathfinder. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

310 The Prairie. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. Bj' R. 

H. Dana, Jr 20 

312 A AVeek in Killarney. By “The 

Duchess” 10 

313 The Lover’s Creed. By Mrs. Cashel 

Hoey 15 

314 Peril. By Jessie Fothergill 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline Rodney’s 

Secret. By Mrs. Alex. McA^eigh 
Miller 20 

317 By Mead and Stream, By Charles 

Gibbon 20 

PAGE OF COVER.] 



MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


THE SEASIDE LIBRAEY.-POOKET EDITION. 


[continued FnOM THIRD PAGE OF COVER.] 


318 The Pioneers: or, Tlie Sources of the 


Susquehanna. By J. Feniinore 
Cooper 20 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven Fa- 

bles. By R. E. Francillon 10 

320 A Bit of Human Nature. By David 

Christie Murray 10 

331 The Prodiffnls: And Their Inherit- 
ance. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

333 A Woinan’s Love-Story 10 

333 A Willful Maid 20 

331 In Luck at Last. By Walter Besant. 10 
33.1 The Portent. By George Macdonald. 10 
.336 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance for 
Men and Women. By George Mac- 
donald 10 

337 Raymond’s Atonement. (From the 

German of E. Werner.) By Chris- 
tina Tyrrell 20 

338 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. (Trans- 

lated from the French of Fortune 
Du Boisgobey. First half 20 

329 The Polish Jew. (Translated fiom 

the French by Caroline A. Merighi.) 

By Erckmanh-Chatrian 10 

330 May Blossom; or, Between Two 

Loves. By Margaret Lee 20 

331 Gerald. By Eleanor C. Price 30 

.333 Judith Wynne. A Novel 20 

.3.33 Frank Fairlegh; or. Scenes from the 

Life of a Private Pupil. By Frank 

E. Smedley 20 

331 A Marriage of Convenience. By Har- 
riett Jay 10 

.33.5 The White Witch. A Novel 20 

3.36 Philistia. By Cecil Power 20 

3;37 Memoirs and Resolutions of Adam 
Graeme of Mossgray, Including 
Some Chronicles of the Borough of 

Fendie. By Mrs. Oliphant 20 

3.38 The Family Difficulty. By Sarah 

Doudney 10 

3:39 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. By 

Mrs. Alexander 10 

340 Under Which King? By Compton 

Reade 20 

.341 Madolin Rivers ; or. The Little Beauty 
of Red Oak Seminary. By Laura 
Jean Libbey 20 


342 The Baby, and One New Year’s Eve. 

By “The Duchess’’ 10 

313 The Talk of the Town. By James 

Payn 20 

314 “ The Wearing of the Green.” By 

Basil 20 

.34.5 Madam. By Mrs. Oliphant .. 20 

316 Tumbledown Farm. By Alan Muir.. 10 

347 As Avon Flows. By Henry Scott Vince 20 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing Ro- 

mance. By Hawley Smart 20 

349 The Two Admirals. A Tale of the 

Sea. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

350 Diana of the Crossways. By George 

Meredith 10 

351 The House on the Moor. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

352 At Any Cost. By Edward Garrett.... 10 
35.3 The Black Dwarf, and A Legend of 

Montrose. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

354 The Lottery of Life. A Story of 
New York Twenty Years Ago. By 

John Broughanj 20 

.355 That Terrible Man. By W. E. Norris. 
The Princess Dagomar of Poland. 

By Heinrich Felbermann 10 

3.56 A Good Hater. By Frederick Boyle. 20 
357 John. A Love Story. By Mrs. Oli- 
phant 20 

3.58 Within the Clasp. By J. Berwick 

Harwood 20 

359 The Water-Witch. By J. Fenimore 

Cooper 20 

.360 Ropes of Sand. By R. E. Francillon. 20 

361 The Red Rover. A Tale of the Sea. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

362 The Bride of Lammermoor. By 

Sir Walter Scott 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter. By Sir 

Walter Scott 10 

364 Castle Dangerous. By Sir Walter 

Scott 10 

.365 George Christy; or, The Fortunes of 

a Minstrel. By Tony Pastor 20 

366 The Mysterious Hunter; or. The 
Man of Death. By Capt. L. C. Carle- 
ton 20 


The above books ai’e for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage pre- 
paid, by the publisher, on receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, 17 cents for special numbers, and 
23 cents for double numbers. Parties wishing the Pocket Edition of The Seaside Library must be 
careful to mention the Pocket Edition, otherwise the Ordinary Edition will toe sent. Address, 

GEORGE niUNUO, Publisher, 


P. O. Ilox 11751 


17 to tiT Vnudewntev Street, New Y'ork 


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